


Fuck This: A Not-So-Short Summary

by Ch3sh1r3Hatt3r



Series: Irritation Infinite [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-06-04 19:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 62,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15154499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ch3sh1r3Hatt3r/pseuds/Ch3sh1r3Hatt3r
Summary: Demetrius Camilla Hinojosa, aka Cam, aka Black Lynx, was retired. Well, unofficially at least. So when Nicholas Fury, universal pain in the ass, shows up at her door, yammering on about cubes and demigods, she's really, really pissed. I mean, it wasn't in her job description to go run around saving the world every time something happens. For once she'd like to finish breakfast in peace!But that's only the start to the biggest adventure Cam has ever had. She's just not sure whether or not the good parts outweigh the bad.





	1. SHIELD, The Infuriatingly Persistent

          As soon as I answer the door and see the man standing outside, I try and slam the door in his face. Sadly, the universe doesn’t seem to be on my side today, because Nicholas Motherfucking Fury is able to wedge his foot between the doorframe and the door, preventing the stupid lump of wood from closing.

         I growl in frustration, eyes narrowing as I take the pressure off of the door, revealing the director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. Or SHIELD, depending on whether not you have all day and the breath control to recite the full name. 

         Nick Fury himself is a tall, African-American guy with a penchant for black trench coats. An eyepatch covers his left eye, making him appear even more mysterious than he already is, a tablet tucked under one arm. I’d learnt a long time ago to never mess with Fury. Doesn’t mean I don’t, but I’ve been diagnosed with authority issues. 

         “What?” I snap impatiently, tense and ready to move at the slightest sign of things going south. Last time we’d been in the same room… Well, let’s just say that I didn’t leave SHIELD on the best of terms.

         “We need you back in for special ops,” Fury says without preamble. My mind practically sprints away from the cliff of curiosity, resolve hardening.

         “Fuck no. Piss off.” The director sighs wearily, as if expecting this. He probably was. Even after all this time, I haven’t quite lost my touch. Doesn’t mean that I’m at my prime, though. 

         “Hear me out, Hinojosa,” Fury says. “We just need your help on this op and then you can go back to whatever you’re doing now.”

         “Right,” I spit with a snort. “And this one op will stretch out for ages, and before I know it I’ve been shoved into another. And after that, they start magically piling up until I’m practically an agent again.” I nail Fury with a glare to make Natasha proud. “I’m not just going to drop everything for an agency that tried to kill me. I have a life now. I have classes, homework, tests, a job, Fury. I’m not going back to risking my life everyday.” Fury gives me his patented Eyeball. 

         “If you don’t help us,” he says evenly, “there’s not going to be any world in which you can make a motherfucking latte.” The impact that one sentence has on me will lead me down a path that I wish that I’d never gone down. Because, to me, this was my last chance at a normal life. And if I had to go back to being… well, back to being who I was before to preserve this life, then I will. This life is all I’ve ever wanted. And I’d do anything to preserve it. 

         A shaky inhale on my part. 

         “One op,” I say firmly, holding up a gloved finger. A silver cord woven into the black material glints in the sun. Fury hands me the tablet under his arm. 

         “You have forty-eight hours. Be ready when I get back.” 

         I watch him walk away numbly, tablet dangling from my gloved hands. I’d just agreed to do something that I’d sworn I’d never do again. And I’m not worried. No, I’m… Well, I’m kinda psyched to do this. And that’s what scares me the most. 

~~~~~

         Forty-eight hours later and I’m packed, ready to go. I’ve read the briefing packet back to front at least five times, am now an expert at thermonuclear astrophysics and have a splitting headache. A low rumble penetrates my little bubble of thought, and I look up, wind churning the leaves in the yard up and whipping my ice-blue hair out of its lazy bun at the top of my head. 

         A jet lands barely four meters in front of me, in all its mysterious, intimidating glory. Through the clear glass that makes up the cockpit, I can see a familiar head of bright red hair and another of short brown strands. The ramp lowers in the back, and Nick Fury steps out of the jet, cool as a cucumber and looking at me with an edge in his eye that makes me tense. 

         “Get in,” the director says shortly. “We’ve caught Loki.” I swear, snatching my duffel bag from its place at my side and hurrying after the dark-skinned man, tablet tucked under one arm. My bare skin is covered by a jacket, even if it’s nearly summer.

         “Cam?” a familiar voice asks in surprise. I bite my lip. 

         “Hey, Nat,” I mutter, looking at my feet. The sounds of footsteps and a shadow falling over me are the only warnings I get before I’m pulled into a bone-crushing hug by one of the world’s deadliest assassins. I stiffen for a moment, before slowly relaxing and wrapping my arms around Natasha Romanoff’s middle, tablet clattering to the floor.

         Eventually, the redhead pulls away, holding me at arms length and inspecting me with a critical eye. Idly, I wonder if I should’ve worn something snazzier than skinnies and a hoodie, but dismiss the thought just as quickly when Nat smiles. 

         “It’s good to see you,” she says softly. I smile hesitantly, still unsure of what to do. It’s been a year without contact, and after all that we’ve been through… well, I’m not entirely sure if she’s had more time to think about what I’d done in the past. Fury is easy. Nat, though… 

         “You too,” I finally reply. Somebody clears their throat, and I grin as I turn to face Maria Hill, second in command to Nick Fury himself. 

         “You haven’t forgotten about me, kiddo?” the brunette asks teasingly. I pause for a moment, mockingly considering for a moment. 

         “Huh. I guess I have.” Maria rolls her eyes, pulling me into a one-armed hug. 

         “We better get going before Fury blows a gasket,” she mutters in my ear. I glance over at the director, and see that he does look pretty impatient. Geez, even a year couldn’t change the man. Nat and Maria go up to the cockpit, while Nick and I strap in, after I pick up the tablet and tuck it into my duffel.

         “You’re the last of our potential recruits,” the director informs me as we take off. “You’ll meet the rest of them shortly after we arrive.” I roll my eyes. 

         “Nice to know that I’m second to Tony Stark.” 

         “Now really isn’t the time for wit, Hinojosa. If you want to get Barton back, you need to be focused.” My jaw tightens at the reminder that my best friend had been turned into a mindless zombie by a reindeer god with a glow stick of destiny. 

         “Understood.” 

~~~~~

         As soon as the jet lands, I’m out and about as quickly as possible, taking in our location. Apparently, Nick had been serious about the flying bases. Helicarriers, that’s what he’d called them. 

         “Wow, this is so cool,” I gush to Nat. “When did they launch this? I should’ve stayed for that. Do you think the vents are big enough to get through? Phil better not’ve welded them all shut again. They were such a pain to rip off the walls, and Maria got pissed when Clint and I…” I trail off, mind flashing through all of the memories from my time at SHIELD. 

         “We’ll get him back,” Nat says firmly, placing a hand on my shoulder. I nod shakily, hugging my arms to my chest as I follow the redhead inside. It’s a bit gloomy in true SHIELD fashion, with long hallways and numerous doors on either side. At some point, a door opens and a familiar brown-haired man joins Nat and me. 

         “Phil!” I exclaim, lunging at the man and attaching myself to him like a koala. My old mentor stands stock-still, supporting my weight with seemingly no effort and an amused smile. 

         “Cam. I see you’re back to causing trouble.” I laugh as I drop down to my own feet, following Natasha as she begins to move again, throwing fond glances over her shoulder that she will definitely deny later when asked. 

         “Nothing can restrain my inner little shit.” My wrists itch as I say the words, and I subconsciously tug the sleeves of my hoodie down further. Recovering quickly, I smile widely. “How do you feel about having Captain America in the same… “ I pause, frowning. “What the fuck do you call a flying secret base? A building or just a flying secret base?” 

         “The latter, I think,” Nat comments, as we pass by a coatrack with a hammer and a red cape hung up on it, a familiar red, white and blue shield leaning against the bottom. I look at the three objects with vague confusion. Also the coat rack, because when the fuck did SHIELD get coatracks? 

         The three of us emerge into a massive room, where all I can see is a clusterfuck of activity that makes me slightly dizzy. The only thing close to this that I’ve seen in a year is the chem lab, but only after something explodes. Phil taps my shoulder, bringing my attention to a small group of people standing and sitting around a large round table. 

         “Ooh, do they still have the spinning chairs?” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth. Phil smirks. 

         “They stopped commissioning those after you and Clint pulled the Great Wheelie Prank.” 

         “Oh, yeah,” I reply sheepishly. “Sorry about that. It was fun while it lasted.” My gaze skips over each person in the room quickly. There are two blondes, both with muscles the width of my head and blue eyes. That’s where the similarities end, though; one is dressed in armor that my fingers itch to touch and the other is decked out in red, white and blue; one of them has long, flowing locks while the other has a cut that reminds me of the military ones that some of the agents around me sport. Not surprising, since Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, fought in World War II. 

         Pacing around behind the conference table is a raven-haired man dressed in a purple shirt. Not hard to tell who he is; even in human form, Bruce Banner, aka the Hulk, is unmistakeable. Definitely not someone I'd want to steal chips from. 

         “Roll call,” I call, coming to a stop and resting a hand on my hip. Thor, Rogers and Banner's heads swivel around to face me. I strangle my unease quickly, before it can grow into an ugly-ass monster. “Two assassins, one popsicle, one otherworldly being, one green giant? All here? Good. I heard that we’re supposed to get the glowing square of destiny back from reindeer god.” 

         "That about sums it up," Maria says. I have to stop myself from jumping, because I hand't even noticed the second-in-command enter the room. The only thing that anchors me is the complete and utter befuddlement on both Thor and Rogers' faces. "I think that introductions are in order, though. Don't leave them hanging for too long." I tip my head to one side in acquiesce. 

         “Demetrius Hinojosa, but I go by Cam," I say. "You might also know me as the Black Lynx.” Rogers' eyes widen for a moment, obviously over his previous shock, and he leans forward in his chair. 

         "You're the Black Lynx?" he asks, half-incredulous, half-amazed. "That's impossible. You'd have to be at least thirty."

         "Thanks, Cap," I say dryly. "I'm actually nineteen." Rogers' brow furrows, and I can see his fists clench on the table. 

         "Agent Hill, please tell me what a kid is doing here?"  the blonde asks stiffly. I roll my eyes, crossing my arms as I stride across the room in order to pull out a chair. It makes a scraping noise as I pull it out. No wheelies for me. Shame. That prank really was one of the best. 

         Nat takes a seat next to me, lifting her chair up so that it doesn't make any noise. Maria raises a single eyebrow at me, prompting me to sit forwards, legs swinging. 

         "Alright, so, basically Nick is an asshole and dragged me out of college so that I can help get the Tesseract back from Loki," I explain flippantly. 

         "You're a kid," Rogers insists heatedly. "You said it yourself, you're in college. You shouldn't be here." I shrug. 

         "I'm not as young as I look, Cap." I rest my elbows on the table, lacing my hands together in order to rest my chin on them. "Waaaaaay back in '42, Hydra was doing all these tests on people, right? Well, they were doing that way before ‘42." A sharp intake of breath from Rogers. "As far as SHIELD could tell, Hydra swiped me when I was eight so they could expermiment on me. The motive was pretty obvious; I was a kid and I was easy to get to and I already had powers. They took the pre-existing powers and used them to give me a few more. After they were done with me, Hydra froze me like a popsicle when I was ten in ‘42. SHIELD dug me up sixty years later, trained me until last year. 

         I was sick and tired of being a weapon. I wanted a normal life, powers or no. They wouldn't let me quit. Some bullshit story about me not being safe for the public. I decided to play their game and hacked their mainframe, threatened to post it online." I grin bitterly. Both Natasha and Maria are avoiding my eyes. I can feel Phil's gaze boring into my back.

         "Naturally, they let me retire. One year later, and everything that I did to escape this hellhole failed." I spread both arms, slumping back in my chair. "Guess who's back, bitches?" There's a shift in movement behind me, and I glance over my shoulder for a second. Phil is leaving. Thor looks thoughtful, and when he sees me looking at him, he smiles. 

         "You must be a mighty warrior indeed, Lady Hinojosa, for SHIELD to have called you back." Intense, electric blue eyes lock onto mine. "Pray tell: what are you capable of?" I smirk, crossing my legs as I tug on the swirling mass of power in my gut and turn invisible. Rogers' eyes widen, Banner stops in his pacing, stupified, and Thor nods approvingly. I grin, carefully climbing out of my seat and onto the table without a sound.

         "Where'd she go?" Rogers demands, head whipping around every which way. I bite my lip to hold in my laughter as I step up off the table and into the air. How? I was flying. 

         “Right here,” I reply, turning visible once I’m hovering near the ceiling. Banner's eyebrows rise, making an attempt to merge with his hairline. Rogers looks suitably shell-shocked, and I laugh as I float down onto the table. "I’d rather not demonstrate it now, but I’m immune to all forms of energy except force, light and sound,” I explain. “Really irritating when you’re trying to tan, but useful when you’re being electrocuted.

         It’s like a shield, I guess, but another downside to that is that I disrupt all electrical signals. These gloves let me touch shit without fucking it up.” I snap my fingers (because even in gloves, the metal makes a satisfying clicking sound), mind digging up an old memory. “And according to Phil, I’ve also got superhuman strength to rival Captain America.” Rogers raises an eyebrow at that, all of his previous confusion gone. I've gotta give it to  him: this guy adjusts well. 

         “We’ll have to test that out sometime.” 

         “It would be my genuine pleasure,” I reply breezily. “What’ve we got so far on Rudolph?” It's almost like I'd flipped a switch. Banner resumes pacing, and so does Thor. Rogers leans forward. 

         “Loki’s gonna drag this out,” the supersoldier says, going into full Captain America mode as he turns to Thor. “So, Thor, what’s his play?” The god turns so that his back is to us. 

         “He has an army called the Chitauri, that none of Asgard nor any world know,” the blonde explains. “He means to lead them against your people. They will win him the earth. In return, I suspect, for the Tesseract.” Rogers raises an eyebrow. 

         “An army,” he repeats. “From outer space.” 

         “Don’t diss it until you see it,” I say absently, eyeing a loose lightbulb in the ceiling. 

         “So he’s building another portal,” Banner says, bringing us back to the original topic. He has his glasses out, fiddles with them as he talks. “That’s what he needs Erik Selvig for.” 

         “Selvig?” Thor asks. Something like shock and worry taints his tone. My gut tells me that these two are connected. 

         “He’s an astrophysicist,” Banner supplies. 

         “He’s a friend,” Thor corrects. Yup. Definitely connected. I dig through the memories of the file I'd read on the blonde demigod. Oh. Yeah. That. New Mexico, Loki, Mjölnir, the giant metal destructo-bot. Selvig was part of a team of astrophysicists who befriended Thor when he first fell to our world. 

         “Loki has him under some kind of spell, along with one of ours,” Nat says. My jaw tightens. 

         “I want to know why Loki let us take him,” I cut in. “He’s not leading an army from here, and it doesn’t look like he’d be an easy guy to take down.” 

         “I don’t think we should be focusing on Loki,” Banner says. “That’s guy’s brain is a bag full of cats, you could smell crazy on him.” The (demi)god in the room frowns at the green giant. 

         “I don’t care how you speak. Loki is beyond reason, but he is of Asgard, and he is my brother.” I grin. 

         “He killed eighty people in two days,” I supply. 

         “He’s adopted,” Thor corrects, backtracking quickly. 

         “I think it’s about the mechanics,” Banner cuts in quickly. “Iridium, what did they need the iridium for?” 

         “It’s a stabilizing agent,” an arrogant voice declares. I glance behind me, and see a person that I can easily recognize having a hurried, whispered conversation with Phil. He's short-ish, with dark hair, a goatee and brown eyes twinkling with mischief that cloaks a deep sadness. Tony Stark, aka Iron Man. Not exactly the way I’d choose to come out as a superhero, but it was certainly attention-getting. 

         "It means that the portal won't collapse on itself like it did at SHIELD," Stark adds as Phil breaks away from the billionaire. He's heading around the conference table, towards Thor. "No hard feelings, Point Break," the playboy says, raising a hand as he draws nearer. "You got a mean swing." He pats Thor's bicep as he walks by. 

         “But if iridium is the stabilizing agent, won't that mean that he can control how long the portal's open and how big it is?” I ask, crossing my legs as Stark makes his way over to the control deck, where five screens arranged in a half circle are set up.

         He points a finger at me. 

         "Exactly," the brunette declares. He turns around. "Raise the mizzenmast. Ship at top sails." I can practically hear the techs in the room rolling their eyes. 

         “That man is playing Galaga,” the playboy suddenly says, pointing to one of the techs. “Thought we wouldn’t notice, but we did.” A pause in which Stark covers one eye and surveys the screens. “How does Fury even see these?” I roll my eyes. 

         “He turns,” Maria says shortly.  

         “Sounds exhausting,” Stark says. I snort, climbing up on to the table and float off of it to begin unscrewing the crooked lightbulb, careful to only touch it with my gloved hands. Sue me and my OCD tendencies. Stark stares. Points at me again. 

         "Alright, Agent, what the hell is going on here?" he demands. "What did you put in that coffee, because that girl is flying." I don't need to see Phil to know that he's grinning. 

         "I think she can explain it for you better than I can," my former SO says. 

         "Later," I say. "Right now we need to focus on the fact that iridium isn't the only thing Loki needs." The billionaire stares for a few moments more before turning away slowly in order to begin messing with the screens. 

         "The rest of the raw materials, Agent Barton can get his hands on pretty easily,” Stark says. “Only major component he still needs is a power source. A high energy density, something to kickstart the cube.” 

         “When did you become an expert in thermonuclear astrophysics?” Maria asks skeptically. 

         “Last night,” the genius replies casually. “The packet, Selvig’s notes, the Extraction Theory papers.” A blank look from the rest of the group. “Am I the only one who did the reading?” the billionaire asks exasperatedly. I raise my free hand as I begin screwing the lightbulb back on.

         “Does Loki need any particular kind of power source?” Rogers asks impatiently, tone stern.

         “He’s have to heat the cube to a hundred and twenty million Kelvin just to break the Coulomb barrier," Banner says. He's still pacing, but stops now.

         "Unless Selvig has figured out how to stabilize the quantum tunneling effect," Stark says, on the move again. 

         “Well, if he could do that he could achieve Heavy Ion Fusion at any reactor on the planet,” Banner says. 

         “Finally, someone who speaks English,” he says.

         "Is that what just happened?" Rogers mutters. I muffle a laugh as I float down onto the table again. 

         “It’s good to meet you, Dr. Banner,” Stark is saying, shaking Banner’s hand. “Your work on the anti-electron collisions is unparalleled.” He waves a hand around vaguely. “And I’m a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster.” 

         “Thanks,” Banner sighs, making a face. 

         “Dr. Banner and Agent Hinojosa are only here to track the cube,” a commanding voice states firmly. I snort quietly as Nick strides by purposefully. “I was hoping you might join them.” I roll my eyes, walking off of the table and into thin air as if it were a solid surface. 

         “Let’s start with that stick of his,” Rogers orders. “It may be magical, but it works an awful lot like a Hydra weapon.” 

         “I don’t know about that, but it is powered by the cube,” Fury says grimly. “And I’d like to know how Loki used it to turn two of the sharpest men I know into his personal flying monkeys.” Thor looks up from his brooding.

         “Monkeys? I do not understand.” 

         “I do,” Rogers says, raising a hand like he’s a first grader. “I understood that reference.” 

         “Shall we play, Doctor?” Stark asks Banner, ignoring the supersoldier. 

         “This way, sir,” Banner replies, gesturing. I follow the two at a sedate pace, humming a Disney tune under my breath.


	2. Hide And Seek, Just With An Object Of Infinite Destruction

         “The gamma readings are definitely consistent with Selvig’s reports on the Tesseract,” Banner observes from his place behind of Loki’s scepter. He’s running a sort of handheld metal detector over it. Magic detector, probably. “But it’s going to take weeks to process.” I grin, craning my neck around my screen. 

         “If we hack the mainframe and reroute to the Homer cluster, we can do it in about six hundred teraflops.” Banner sighs, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Idly, I wonder how much he spends on glasses every time he turns into the Hulk. And on pants. 

         “All I packed was a toothbrush,” I hear the doctor mutter. 

         “You know, you should come by Stark Towers sometime,” Stark says casually, moving out from behind his screen and crossing the room. “Top ten floors, all R&D. You’d love it, it’s candyland.” He picks something up. 

         “Thanks, but the last time I was in New York, I kinda broke Harlem,” Banner replies sheepishly. I snort. 

         “Last time I saw Fury, I was about to expose SHIELD,” I counter. I frown a moment after, pushing my ever-present safety goggles up in my head. “Although, I’m not exactly the green giant, so I can’t  really compare that one to your situation.” 

         “Well, I promise a stress-free environment,” Stark wheedles, making his way around Banner. “No tension. No surprises.” As he passes by Banner, he pokes him with something small and pointy that makes a zapping sound, causing the doctor to jump. I frown, swiping onto another screen and proceeding to hack the SHIELD mainframe.

         “Hey!” an annoyed voice calls. 

         “Nothing?” the billionaire asks the doctor with a frown. The doors to the lab slide open, and a certain walking, talking American Flag strides in. I can almost smell the apple pie and freedom. 

         "Jury's out," Stark replies flippantly, turning back to Banner. "You really have got a lid on it, haven't you?"

         Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention back to my screen and start flipping through the files quickly. Having read Stark’s files, there’s a 99% chance that the genius is going to hack SHIELD. I just have to be faster than him and take care of everything they have on me that wasn’t in the briefing packet. It’s simple; surprisingly so. 

         Narrowing my eyes, I start searching for any loopholes, things that I could have missed. Something out of place. SHIELD wasn’t this easy to hack. Something’s up. 

         “Is everything a joke to you?” the Captain demands of the playboy. I start at the raised tone, looking up from my work. Apparently, I’d missed part of the conversation.

         “Funny things are,” the billionaire replies cheekily. 

         “Threatening the safety of everyone on this ship isn’t funny,” the blonde counters. I can feel the patriotism oozing off of him from across the lab. Blue eyes dart to Banner, a slight grimace on the all-American face of freedom. “No offense, doctor.” 

         “No, it… it’s alright,” Banner replies, bending over the scepter. “I wouldn't have come aboard if I couldn’t handle pointy things.” 

         “You’re tiptoeing, big man,” Stark says, drifting over to the center of the room. I quickly swipe out of the SHIELD records, returning to my earlier analysis of Loki’s scepter. “You need to strut.” I sigh heavily. 

         “And you need to focus on the problem, Stark,” Rogers interjects harshly. 

         “You think I’m not?” the dark-haired man snaps back, producing a silver bag out of seemingly nowhere. “Why did Fury call us, and why now? Why not before? What isn’t he telling us? I can’t do the equation unless I have all the variables.” 

         “You think Fury’s hiding something?” Rogers asks skeptically. Well, it sounds like a question, but seems like a statement. 

         “He’s a spy,” Stark points out. “Captain, he’s _the_  spy. His secrets have secrets.” He pauses to pop a handful of whatever is in the silver bag into his mouth. “It’s bugging him too, isn’t it?” the brunette continues without hesitation, gesturing at Banner. 

         “Don’t speak with your mouth full,” I comment idly, deleting another file. 

         “Uh, I just want to finish my work here and…” Banner gestures vaguely, trailing off. Rogers looks at the doctor seriously. 

         “Doctor?” A long silence, in which Banner removes his glasses with a sigh. 

         “A warm light for all mankind—“ 

         “Humankind,” I chip in. “It’s less sexist.” I’d watched Nick interrogate Loki on the way up. Banner looks at me, vaguely bemused. 

         “Humankind. Loki’s jab at Fury about the cube.”

         “I heard it,” Rogers replies, shifting stiffly. 

         “Well, I think that was meant for you,” the doctor explains, pointing at Stark. The genius only offers him the silver bag, which the doctor accepts, pulling out a handful of… blueberries, maybe? “Even if Barton didn’t tell Loki about the Tower, it was still all over the news.” 

         “The Stark Tower?” Rogers asks. “That big, ugly—“ 

         Stark sends him a look colder than the ice that the blonde had been encased in, and he cuts himself off, crossing his arms. 

         “Building in New York?” 

         “It’s powered by an arc reactor, self-sustaining energy source,” Banner explains. “That building will run itself for what, a year?” 

         “That’s just the prototype,” Stark replies proudly. “I’m kinda the only name in clean energy right now.” I roll my eyes. 

         “So why didn’t SHIELD bring him in on the Tesseract project?” Banner concludes. “I mean, what are they doing in the energy business in the first place?” 

         “I should probably look into that once my decryption program finishes breaking into all of SHIELD’s secure files,” Stark says idly, moving out from behind the table. My gaze snaps to the billionaire, and I silently thank my paranoia. The rest of the team can _not_  find out about the rest of my past. Five people that I trust is fine, but four virtual strangers is way past the point where I put my foot down. And that’s assuming Clint hasn’t told Loki about me yet. 

         “I’m sorry, did you say—“ 

         “JARVIS has been running it since I hit the bridge,” Stark cuts in. “In a few hours, I’ll know every dirty secret SHIELD has ever tried to hide.” He offers the supersoldier the silver bag. “Blueberry?” 

         “Yet you’re confused about why they didn’t want you around?” Rogers replies scathingly, ignoring the food. I rap on the table to get Stark’s attention, making grabby hands at the blueberries. The genius tosses the bag over, and I catch it effortlessly. 

         “He does have a point,” I say, crossing my legs. “SHIELD is an intelligence organization, don’t let the name fool you. And an intelligence organization that fears intelligence? Historically not possible.” I pop a blueberry into my mouth, pushing it into my cheek so that I can speak. “My hypothetically nonexistent soul is on Loki trying to wind us up, though. He wants to start a war, and if we don’t cover every base, he’ll get exactly what he wants. If we don’t look into whatever Nick is squirreling away, we only have half of the puzzle to poke at.” 

         “We have orders, we should follow them,” Rogers insists as I begin to chew. 

         “Following isn’t really my style,” Stark snarks back. I pop a handful of blueberries in my mouth. 

         “And you’re all about style, aren’t you?” the blonde counters sarcastically. 

         “Of the people in this room, which one is, a) wearing a spangly outfit, and b) not of use?” 

         “Steve,” Banner says softly. “Tell me none of this smells a little funky to you?” The blonde’s expression tightens, and he turns on heel, exiting the lab. 

         “Just find the cube,” he throws over his shoulder. 

         “Like we weren’t doing that before,” I mutter petulantly, munching on a fresh handful of blueberries. 

         “That’s the guy my dad never shut up about?” Stark asks to loud. “Wondering if they shouldn’t have kept him on ice.” I sigh irritably, slipping off of the tabletop. I need more coffee for this. 

~~~~~

         I don’t know where the goddamn cafeteria is, I can’t find Fury, Hill or Nat and I don’t want to ask any of the agents. Sighing wearily, I dig a pack of gum out of my pocket, popping a piece in my mouth. It should tide me over for a while—at least until I find something with caffeine. 

         I let my feet take me wherever they want, which might have been a bad choice, considering that I end up standing in front of a certain glass cage, facing a sneering god. He doesn’t have the helmet on, though; I’d seen the pictures from Stuttgart, and I couldn’t help but laugh every time I saw the stupid golden thing. The absence of the helmet does not, however, bring my self-preservation instincts into play, nor does it jolt me out of my decaffeinated haze, because the first thing I blurt out isn’t exactly something I’d say to a god. 

         “This isn’t the break room.” 

         The Norse god of mischief can only stare. I stare right back, a small frown on my face as I replay what I’d just said. I slap a hand to my face as I realize what, exactly, I’d just blurted. 

         “Fuck, I need some coffee,” I mumble to myself. Straightening, I face the ravenette with resigned posture. Underestimation is the key to prying out information, and with my first impression it’ll be easy. Assuming Clint hasn’t spilt the beans yet, that is. At least now I’m not in a decaffeinated zombie trance. I hide my hands behind my back in order to conceal the telltale black gloves. The so-called god seems surprised, though, so that’s another bonus. 

         “Who the fuck are you?” Loki asks bluntly. I grin, blowing a bubble with my gum before responding. 

         “Dem, though I do have a few other names. Makes it kinda complicated, but you get used to it after a while.” The god of mischief stands up from his place on the provided cot, beginning to pace. 

         “Liar,” he says, barely sparing me a glance. “I know one when I hear one. Who are you really?” 

         “I shit you not, my name is Dem,” I reply, stifling a smile. The god freezes in the middle of the cage, turning on heel to face me, a glint in his eye that makes me uneasy. 

         “Barton told me about you,” Loki says, a grin creeping over his impish features. “But under a different name—Cam, if I’m not mistaken, better known as the Black Lynx? My, my, my, what I would do to get my hands on you…” 

         “That’s not perverted at all,” I mutter, crossing my arms with a shudder. “I’d say nice to meetcha, but you kinda turned one of my only friends into a flying monkey from the Wizard of Oz.” Loki rolls his eyes. 

         “No matter. I have Barton; he’ll do. I can take care of you later, after I make him kill Romanoff.” I grin, blowing and popping yet another bubble. 

         “There’s a snowballs chance in hell of that ever happening,” I inform the trickster. “Best bet is you lose Barton and the inevitable war. And that’s the _best_  bet, mind you. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Or on her period, which is beside the point.” Tilting my head to one side, I inspect the god critically. “One last question before I go: which one do you feel like right now? The ant, or the boot?” A snarl contorts Loki’s face, and the god surges to the wall of the cage, slamming a fist against it. 

         “Do not play with my words, you pathetic mortal!” he roars. “I am a god, and you are nothing more than a lowly dog begging for my scraps!” I roll my eyes, shifting my weight onto my right leg. 

         “I may be a mortal, but that doesn’t mean that I’m pathetic,” I warn the ravenette. Then I turn on heel, stalking out the door. Right before I exit, though, I pause and look back. Loki’s eyes are still fixed on me. “I don’t beg for anyone’s scraps,” I add cooly. Then I sweep out of the room, jaw clenched. 

~~~~~

         “Found anything, doctor?” I ask, waltzing into the lab, a piping-hot mug of coffee in one hand. It’s much more crowded in here than when I left. “I’m on a schedule, so if you’ve got anything, I can get there fast if you need me to. Procrastination is at five, then I’ve got assassinations at seven and eight thirty.” 

         “The Tesseract belongs on Asgard, no human is a match for it,” Thor argues. I raise an eyebrow mockingly. 

         “You gonna stop me, Sparkles?” I counter challengingly. The Asgardian makes to step towards me, but Stark distracts the both of us. 

         “I’m not afraid to hit an old man!” the genius snaps, volume just barely falling short of yelling. 

         “Put on the suit,” Rogers challenges. Stark opens his mouth, but nobody ever finds out what he’s going to say, because at that moment, a distant explosion rocks the entire ship. I’m thrown off of my feet, but manage to stabilize myself in the air. The rest of the assembled team in the lab (Banner, Stark, Rogers, Thor, Nick and Nat), however, aren’t that lucky; part of the ceiling comes crashing down, filling the air with dust and disorienting me even more. 

         I swear loudly, coughing violently as I wave the clouds of dust away from my face. Once everything clears up, though, I can immediately spot the absence of a certain head of red hair and a purple shirt belonging to Nat and Banner respectively. Everyone else seems largely unharmed, although there’s now a massive gaping hole in the ground. My coffee mug is in pieces on the floor, but now isn't the time to focus on that. And when coffee isn’t my first priority, then you know everything is going to hell. 

         A flash of movement catches my eye, and I turn to see Rogers dragging a semi-stunned Stark to his feet, pushing him out the door. 

         “Put on the suit!” I hear the Captain yell. 

         “Hill!” Nick yells, staggering to his feet. I scramble to turn my radio on, the best solution the tech department could come up with for my situation, just in time to hear Maria’s response. 

         “It’s a detonation,” the lieutenant explains. “Number three engine is down.” I swear, pulling my goggles down to cover my eyes before turning in midair, tucking my arms in tightly before I make my exit. 

         Through the window, of course. 

         “Rogers, I want you to get your patriotic ass, American frisbee of death and national anthem of healing down to engine three!” I call over the rush of wind. “You better bring Stark as well; I won’t be able to check the engines from where I’ll be, and I’ve got no clue how this shit works. Don’t think anyone would want me in their either, ‘cause one wrong move sends us all down.” 

         “Yes ma’am,” I hear the Captain reply. Veering right, I cough as I inhale errant smoke from the burning engine, quickly diving down under the helicarrier. A red and gold shape quickly comes into view, and I salute Stark as I speed past him, heading for the underside of the helicarrier. 

         “What the hell are you doing, wondergirl?” Stark demands. I steady myself, lifting my hands and bracing my arms as I fly up, gloved hands meeting cold, unforgiving metal. I can feel the broken hum of engine three, and heat stings my legs through my pants. 

         “Holding up the damn base and buying you more time!” I yell, grunting as I force myself up a little higher, trying to keep the massive airship balanced. “Move your ass, ‘cause I’m not sure if I can hold this indefinitely.” My response is met by the sounds of shrieking metal, which makes me wince. The base drops half an inch on my side, and I swear vehemently as I shove it back into place. 

         “News,” I grit out into my earpiece, arms holding strong despite the strain. 

         “Turbine looks mostly intact, but it is impossible to get out there and repair when we’re in the air,” a mechanical, British-accented voice replies. I jump, banging my head on the underside of the helicarrier with a clang. There’s a brief stutter from the other engines, but the helicarrier remains in the air.

         “What was that?” Rogers asks worriedly. 

         “Nothing, nothing,” I say hurriedly. “What the fuck was _that_?” 

         “JARVIS,” Stark replies. “He’s an AI.”

         “If we lose another engine, we won’t be in the air for much longer,” Maria interjects. “Someone’s gonna have to get inside and patch the engine.”

         “Bags not it!” I manage to spit out, using my shoulder to shove against the metal underside of the helicarrier. “Stark, you’re the one completely encased in metal. All I’ve got is skinnies and a hoodie; Cap’s got spandex and the eternal spirit of freedom. You’re our best bet.” 

         “On it,” the genius sighs. 

         “Hurry up with it, ‘cause my stamina isn’t infinite,” I warn. A grunt of confirmation from Stark, and then there’s a lot of clanging and bumping. 

         “Ms. Hinojosa, we have a problem here!” Rogers suddenly yells. The sound of gunfire follows his words. I groan, arms trembling with the effort of keeping the helicarrier level, even if only from one side. 

         “Use your indestructible frisbee of patriotism, I’m kinda stuck underneath the base!” A pause, and then Rogers’ line shorts out, disconnecting him. I swear. “Stark, you got any eyes on the Capsicle?” 

         “Nope, nothing, wondergirl. Keep doing your thing, I’m almost there,” the genius replies. 

         “Alright, I’m clear,” Cap declares barely a minute later, coming online once more. I breath a sigh of relief. 

         “Good,” Stark replies. “See what we got. I gotta get this super conducting cooling system back online before I can access the rotors and work on dislodging the debris. I need you to get to that engine control panel and tell me which relays are in overload position. What’s it look like in there?” A pause, in which I can hear both Stark and Rogers moving around. 

         “It seems to run on some form of electricity,” the Captain finally replies with a noise of frustration. 

         “Oh, really?” I snap. “I thought everything ran on the infinite happiness of rainbows and unicorn fairies!” 

         “Wondergirl, don’t waste your breath,” Stark recommends. “Cap, I’m gonna coach you through this. Don’t screw it up. JARVIS, remind me to look up unicorn fairies later.” I grind my teeth together, jaw clenching and muscles flexing as I struggle to keep aloft. It’s getting harder by the second, and I don’t think I’ll be able to hold on to it for much longer. There’s a few small explosions, and a lot of yelled instructions on Stark’s part before Rogers can be heard. 

         “The relays are intact,” Cap yells. “What’s our next move?” 

         “Even if I clear the rotors, this thing won’t re-engage without a jump!” Stark yells over the sound of screeching metal. “I’m going to have to get in there and push.” 

         “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard since the time my roommate recommended a therapist for my paranoia!” I grunt, arms shaking from the stress of holding up th helicarrier. “You’re going to be Iron Man confetti, suit or not.” 

         “Then Capsicle can stay at the control unit and reverse polarity long enough to disengage mag—“ 

         “Speak English!” Cap yells. 

         “See that red lever? It’ll slow the rotors down long enough for me to get out,” Stark explains impatiently. “Stand by it, wait for my word.” A massive explosion comes from my left, and I yelp as the helicarrier pushes me down a few feet. Muttering a string of expletives under my breath, I heave heavily and push the helicarrier back up. 

         “Stark, we’re losing altitude,” Rogers warns. 

         “I think we both noticed,” I groan, bracing my hands against the solid, unforgiving steel of the massive flying base. _Dammit, Nick, you and I are having words after this._

         “Hinojosa, You’ve got to get out of there,” Stark says. 

         “Says the man getting ready to jump into a blending machine,” I groan, readjusting my hands and pushing harder. 

         “Wait until Stark is in the smoothie and get out, Hinojosa!” Nick barks in my ear. “That’s an order!” 

         “I’m going in!” the genius warns. His words are quickly followed by the sound of whirring metal, which I take as my cue to shove off from the underside of the helicarrier, zipping to the side as fast as I can. However, a flash of blue catches my eye and something slams into my side, sending me cartwheeling a few meters to the side and three feet down before I regain my bearings. Screaming grows louder and then fainter as flashes of black shoot by me. 

         “The fuck was that?” I groan, flying back up a bit wobbly. 

         “I may have pushed a few people off the side of the carrier,” Rogers admits. 

         “Don’t aim for me next time,” I reply grumpily, collapsing to what remains of the the metal catwalk on the side of the massive flying base in the sky. 

         “The fact that you talk about pushing people off of airplanes so casually is mildly terrifying,” Stark says lightly from his place on the floor, not far off from me. I salute him mockingly, groaning at the pain from my side.


	3. Regrets Are Had And Tony Is Pushed Out A Window

         The moment I hear that Clint is back, I escape medical and go looking. It’s not like being hit with a laser is anything serious to me, so I figure I’m good. Besides, I need to confirm something. Because Phil can’t be dead, he can’t be, he’s definitely going to be alive, he has to survive. Nat will know. And Nat is with Clint. 

         I find Nat with Clint, sitting at his side in the medwing. The archer is comatose, cuffed to the bed. I clear my throat as I knock on the door. The redhead looks up, and the moment I see the faint tear tracks on her face, I know. I know that Phil is dead, that this is real, because Natasha doesn’t cry unless she has to, and this… this is definitely worth crying for.

         The expression on my face must be particularly devastating, because the redhead immediately stands, heading towards me. Taking my hands, she leads me to her deserted chair and pushes me down into it. I don’t fight it, because my head is pounding and I can’t even think about fighting right now. Because I’d always figured that Phil would outlive me, what with the crazy shit I do and the possibility of an expiration date on my part. But he didn’t, and now he’s dead, and there’s nothing that can change that.

         The soft scent of some sort of flower reaches my nose, and Nat envelops me in a tight hug. I cling to her like a lifeline for who knows how long, both of us drowning in our misery. Tears won’t form. I just shake with silent sobs while Natasha holds me tightly, sharing my pain as best as she can. My safety goggles dig into my collarbone, and I feel like trash. Because maybe if I hadn’t left, if I hadn’t run away, then I would’ve been able to stop this. Would’ve been able to distract Loki long enough for everyone to get away.

         I guess leaving really was selfish.

         And when Clint wakes up, one of us is going to have to tell him the news. Tell him that the unrequited love of his life was dead, and that he wasn’t coming back. Ever. I don’t want to be the one to tell him that, to tell him that another person he cares about is gone.

         My left arm is gripping my bicep, clenching hard around my upper arm. The pain I get feels like penance as I slowly calm, shoulders relaxing tiredly.

         “How’s he doing?” I ask quietly, voice raspy. I can feel Nat’s shoulders slump.

         “Dead to the world,” she replies tiredly. “I gave him a good knock on the head.” She sighs heavily before drawing away, a hand lingering on my shoulder comfortingly as she moves out of my field of vision. The sound of a chair scraping reaches my ears, and I look up to see Nat dragging a chair across the room.

         “Never should’ve gotten rid of the wheelies,” I mutter. Natasha raises an eyebrow.

         “It’s your fault.”

         “Worth it,” I mutter under my breath as the ex-Russian superspy sits down gracefully. She sends me a glare, but before she can reply, Clint shoots bolt upright in bed. Both of us jump, focus tuned intently on our partner as he shakes his head violently, as if trying to get water out of his ears, arms straining to break the restraints on his wrists. I stand quickly, grabbing his hearing aids off of the side table.

         “Hey,” I say, trying to get into his field of vision. “Hey, birdbrain. Look at me.” Clint’s jaw drops, shock painted on his face. I bite my lip nervously. If I have to look at him any longer, I’m going to spill my guts out about Phil. “You’re going to be okay,” I say carefully, enunciating each word. Not too much, because I know that he hates when people think that he’s completely incapable of reading lips. “I’m going to unstrap you.”

         The sandy-blonde archer only stares at me, so I take that as a ‘go ahead’, slowly reaching for the cuffs that bind his wrists to the bed. The action gives me a brief moment of respite to recompose myself, to push all thoughts out of my mind. Once his hands are free, I hand him his aids. He only takes them after a few more beats of utter shock. Nat stands up to get him a glass of water.

         Cam?” he asks weakly. I nod hesitantly, moving aside so that Natasha can sit on the edge of the bed to hand the archer a glass of water. “But—But you left.” I hug myself self-consciously, looking at my boots.

          “Yeah,” I admit softly, guilt practically drowning me. _Never should’ve left, should’ve stayed, should’ve helped._  I clear my throat awkwardly, still avoiding eye contact. “Figured now was the best time to come back. You needed your ass kicked.” Risking a glance up, I see Clint gripping the cup with white knuckles, posture rigid.           “I gotta flush him out,” he says quietly. I avert my gaze to the floor.

         “We… we don’t have time,” I admit guiltily. Because Clint deserves so much more, deserves to have all the time in the world to heal. Someone who can care without hurting. The archer’s gaze bores into me.

         “Why’d you come back?” he asks. “Really.” I squeeze my eyes shut tight.

         "The world is ending,” I reply. “I wanted a normal life. And to do that, I have to do one last thing. After this, I’m in the wind.” Those words tear me apart to say, but it’s true. If I ever want the chance to remain semi-normal, then I have to distance myself from all of… Well, whatever you want to call this shitshow.

         Nick had told me that Phil had called it the Avengers.

         “Why am I back?” Clint finally asks after a long silence. “How did you get him out?”

         "Cognitive recalibration,” Natasha replies quickly, jumping in before any more damage can happen. “I hit you really hard on the head.” I muster the courage to look up, try to lock any thoughts of Phil out. The look that Clint is giving Nat makes me drop my eyes again. It’s intense, and it’s hurt, and it’s a little bit scared. A lot scared, actually.

         “How many agents?” he asks. It’s not really a question, actually. More a demand.

         “Don’t,” the ex-Russian superspy says sharply. “Don’t do that to yourself, Clint. This is Loki. This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for.” I look up again, a little bit above both of their heads.

         “We trained with Cam, Nat,” Clint replies flatly. “That’s practically what we were groomed for.” Another short stretch of silence, and I spot the sandy-blonde’s shoulders slump in defeat out of my peripheral vision. “Loki,” he says thickly, “he got away?” I don’t know who he’s directing it at, but Nat and I both nod anyways.

         "I don’t suppose you know where,” I manage to mutter quietly. It’s so hard, keeping this secret, even if it’s barely been a minute. Every particle of my being begs to let him know, because I don’t keep much from either of the two, and this is one of the first times I’ve had to do this. Lie straight to their faces and tell them everything’s alright. But it’s definitely not going to be the last, considering what’s happened in the last year.

         "I didn’t need to know,” Clint replies, shifting so that he’s sitting next to Nat. I force myself to look him in the eye, but quickly look a bit to his right. “I didn’t ask. He’s gonna make his play soon though. Today.”

         “We gotta stop him,” Nat says quietly. It’s still decisive, though, still determined and strong. Because this is Natasha, and she can do anything and I believe that she could stop Loki if she wanted to.

         “Yeah?” Clint replies, a small, bitter smile quirking the corners of his mouth. “Who’s we?”

         “I don’t know,” Nat admits. I’ve been hearing that an awful lot lately, and the fact that the redhead has said them makes me scared. Because the ex-Russian superspy isn’t exactly one to admit her faults out loud. “Whoever’s left.”

         "Well,” the archer begins, “if I put an arrow in Loki’s eye socket, I’d sleep better I suppose.” He finishes off with a small nod, as if he’s trying to convince himself of it as much as us. We all know that killing Loki won’t do anything to help the nightmares.

         “Now you sound like you,” Nat says regardless, approving even if there’s nothing to approve. Approving words we all know to be empty.

         "But you don’t,” Clint shoots back shrewdly. Behind his dumb blonde act, he’s actually pretty smart. Nick told me that he figured out how the Tesseract worked before the world’s best astrophysicist. “You’re a spy, not a soldier. Now you want to wade into a war. Why? What did Loki do to you?” Natasha freezes, then pushes off the bed, crossing her arms and walking a little ways across the room.

         “He didn’t, I just…”

         "Natasha,” I say quietly. “We’ve all been compromised. We’re all losing it. We need to find a way to attack that at its core.” Clint shoots me an approving look.

         "I’d like to wipe out the red in my ledger too,” he agrees.

 

 

         I didn’t expect Cap to actually come and ask my little trio to suit up, but he does. Clint and Nat go their way, and Maria tracks me down to drag me to the storage room, shoving a few crates at me and directing me to a room where I can change. There’s a single bench in here, and that’s where I sit. The boxes sit in front of me, and I’m straddling the bench, having the most intense staring contest with my past than any other that I’ve had before.

         It isn’t because I’m scared. No, in fact, that’s exactly why I’m having this bizzare staring contest. These crates don’t scare me, and that’s what really makes me hesitate. How much of me longs to be what I once was? How much of me is always going to be that person at heart? How long can I resist this? What if I don’t want to leave? Squeezing my eyes shut tightly, my fingers clench around the bench, loosening when I open them.

         Taking a deep breath, I reach towards the top one and drag it towards me in order to pry the lid off.

         Neatly folded inside is a simple black bulletproof vest, along with tight black pants and shining silver armguards laid on top. A wide black belt is expertly coiled beside the outfit, along with a silver cord attached to a handle in order to form a whip. A matching black mask sits beside the belt and whip, in the shape of a lynx’s snout. Above the mask is a pair of goggles with tinted lenses that look a lot like shades. Carefully, I lift the armguards out, setting them to one side in order to reach the vest and pants underneath. They're both black, both Kevlar and both relics of a past that I'm now forced to relive.

         Allowing a single, shuddering sigh to leave my lips, I set the clothes aside and pick up the coiled whip. For a moment that seems to stretch out forever, I stare at my old weapon that's gotten me through so much. It's been so long since I've held this in my hands, and it seems to thrum with energy. In its own way, it's welcoming me back, whispering static words only I can hear.

         Wtih a sharp, sudden flick of my wrist, I release all of the whip save the handle, snapping it through the air with a crack. And that's when it really comes to life, sizzling, buzzing and crackling with electricity. Reaching out slowly, almost trancelike, my free hand runs down the length of the whip that's covered in electricity, the energy sending warm tingles up my arm through the glove. I allow myself a brief moment to breathe in the comforting scent of ozone before snapping the whip again, deactivating it.

         I breathe in deeply, standing up and pulling my shirt over my head. My civvies are replaced with my gear in no time, and I quickly slot all my weapons in place. The whip goes on my belt, coiled neatly on a belt of knives. Fours guns go in their holsters lined up on the sides of my calves, and I stash spare ammo anywhere I can put it.           I clench my hands into fists, leather of my gloves creaking. It’s terrifying. Knowning that I’m going out with a group of people like me to fight an army of aliens from outer space. Just a day ago, my biggest worry was whether or not I’d turned in the term paper. I set my jaw, picking up the mask and clipping it to my belt beside the whip. I shake my muscles out quickly before bounding out of the room.

         "Cap!” I exclaim, hurrying forward to meet him. “You got us a ride?” Rogers nods.

         "You ready, solider?”

         "As I’ll ever be,” I reply flippantly, jogging ahead of the supersoldier. He rolls his eyes, but not in an annoyed way. I consider it a success, and do a little mental happy dance.

 

 

         An hour later, I peer over Clint and Natasha’s shoulders as New York comes into view, careful not to accidentally touch anything with my bare skin. My radio is clipped to my shoulder, hair pulled back in a high pony in order to avoid it getting in my way.

         "Finally,” I mutter, backing away from my partners and heading for the closed cargo bay doors.

         “We’re going to loop around,” Clint calls over his shoulder. “Don’t expect us too soon. It’s gonna take awhile.” Rogers looks at me confusedly as I pass him, a small frown turning the corners of his mouth down and furrowing his brow.

         “What’s going on?” he asks as Clint hits the open ramp button. “Hey? Guys? What’s she doing? Does she have a death wish—“

         I sprint forwards, taking a running leap off of the open cargo bay doors, snapping my goggles over my eyes to protect them from the nasty shit that might get in them. I surge forwards as the sound of the whirring of machinery reaches my ears, even with the wind rushing past them. I risk a glance over my shoulder and spot Iron Man a few meters behind, gold and red armor glinting in the sunlight, scratched and dented as it is.

         Reining in my speed carefully, I tilt a bit to the left in order to allow Stark more room to maneuver without risk of brushing against me and tumbling into the sea. The billionaire glances at me for a second, jerking his head forwards. I nod, and we both speed up, heading for the Stark Tower that I can see from across the city.

         We’re not fast enough.

         Underneath where a walkway connects a big landing pad to the rest of the tower stands a certain god dressed in black and green. Minus the helmet, thankfully, so I don’t burst into laughter on sight. I can’t read Stark’s body language that well while he’s in the suit, but if I were him I’d be somewhere between pissed and pissing my pants, because there is a god on your front step that is set on destroying the world. But the billionaire keeps on flying, and I can just barely hear him having a hurried conversation with the AI in his suit.

         I veer to the side in order to give Stark enough room to land on the big landing pad. I’m careful as I land further up the walkway once I realize what it does; parts of it are detaching, coming up to begin disassembling the Iron Man armor as Stark walks down it.

         “You got some snazzy tech here,” I comment as Stark advances towards me. We’re both ignoring the elephant in the room—or walkway, if you will. I drift up and to the side as the billionaire gets closer in order not to fuck up the process, drifting beside the ravenette as he nears a set of what I assume are glass doors, even if I can’t see a crack that divides two panes in half.

         What did you expect?” Stark replies, a sassy edge to his words. It’s amazing how casual this could be if there wasn’t an evil Norse god eyeing us from below. The last piece of armor is removed, and the glass in front of us splits in two with a quiet whoosh. “This is Stark Tower.”

         “Narcissistic, but the aesthetic is nice,” I reply cheerfully, touching down lightly in order to bound across slate-grey floors. A chill washes over me, and the sound of an extra set of footsteps alerts me to Loki’s arrival. I pull my goggles up so that they hold the loose bits of hair out of my face.

         “Please tell me that you’re going to appeal to my humanity,” the god says, advancing forwards. I can feel Stark roll his eyes as I vault over the stone and metal guard that lines the ramp that we’re walking on, landing behind a bar stocked with alcohol.

         “Uh, actually, we were planning to threaten you,” Stark corrects, making his way down the ramp at his own pace. Loki’s smarmy smirk makes me wrinkle my nose.

         “You should’ve left your armor on for that,” the ravenette snipes back, gesturing with his scepter at the walkway outside. “Your friend clearly has a better idea.” I shrug, one hand resting on my hip, just above my coiled whip.

         “Yeah,” the billionaire agrees, walking down a few steps. “Seen a bit of mileage, and you’ve got the uh—how’d Cam put it—the ultimate glow stick of destiny.” I seesaw my hand back and forth with a shrug, leaning against the bar as the genius approaches.

         “Would you like a drink?” I blink in surprise, ignoring the amused smirk that Loki has.

         “No comment about my age?”

         “Age isn’t everything,” Stark replies dismissively, brushing past me in order to get to the bar. He takes off something small and gray as he does, placing it behind the ledge that the bar top is on. “Scotch? Wine? Vodka? Tequila?”

         “Stalling me won’t change anything,” Loki says, in a tone that clearly communicates how highly he thinks of himself.

         “Threatening,” I correct, hopping up onto the counter that’s hidden behind the ledge. “And tequila for me.” Stark eyes the counter underneath me, but makes no comment. Taking out two glasses, he pours a few inches of tequila into one and some sort of scotch the color of amber into the other. I take mine with a grin, the silvery metal that’s woven into my gloves clinking quietly against the glass. “Cheers,” I offer.

         We touch glasses, sipping a good amount. The alcohol lights my throat on fire as it goes down, and I shiver at the feeling. It’s nice to know that I can still be human, even if I literally can’t tan or hold a phone to my ear without shorting it out. Still, this tequila won't hit me for a while if I take it slow. I shift so that I’ve got one arm propped up against the bar, acting casual even if we all know that it's just an act.

         “No drink you’re sure?” Stark asks, as if he actually cares. He pulls off a good flippant front, I’ve got to give him that. Loki shakes his head amusedly, turning away to slowly advance towards a wall made entirely out of windows. Idly, I wonder if they’re ever a party hazard.

         “The Chitauri are coming, nothing will change that,” the god states confidently. He turns back toward us abruptly, no trace of doubt on his face. “What have I to fear?”

         “The Avengers,” Stark points out noncommittally, taking another sip of honey-colored scotch. Loki and I both raise an eyebrow. Me, because I didn't know that Stark knew what Phil had named the program, and Loki because... I can't even find the smallest part of me that gives a shit about why he'd raised an eyebrow. “It’s what we call ourselves, sort of like a team,” the billionaire elaborates. “Earth’s Mightiest Heroes type of thing.”

         “We suck,” I add, crossing my legs and taking another sip of tequila as Thor’s brother advances towards the bar once again.

         “Yes, I’ve met them,” he says with a menacing grin. I roll my eyes, slipping off the counter in order to walk over to the other side of the bar.

         “Yeah, takes us a while to get any traction, I’ll give you that one,” Tony—because, really, if you stare down an evil Norse god who’s the brother of your teammate together while having a drink and can’t call each other friends, I don’t know what friends are—concedes. Loki pauses in his menacing model walk, calculating look on his face.

         “As shitty as we are, I still think that roll call is in order,” I suggest, setting my drink down. I count them off on my fingers as I go. “There’s your brother, the surfer dude with muscles more than my waist. A super soldier with a shield that I’m 95% sure is made out of patriotism. A guy with breathtaking anger issues. An assassin who’s killed more people than there’s buildings in this city. Another assassin who once won a Jenga contest with two arrows and a stick of gum. And a guy who I’m pretty sure can build several cars while blackout drunk with a pretty damn resistant suit made outta metal.”

         “And you,” Tony says, pointing at a pacing Loki and picking up where I left off, “big fella—you’ve managed to piss off every single one of us.” He pauses. “Her too,” he adds, jabbing a thumb at me. I stick my tongue out at him.

         “That was the plan.”

         “Not a great plan,” I deadpan. “Did I mention the guy with anger issues? I did, right?” Tony smirks minutely as he walks out from behind the bar, scotch held in one hand.

         “When they come, and they will, they’ll come for you,” the billionaire says firmly, determination lacing his voice. He walking forwards as he speaks, confidence so real that I almost buy that he’s absolutely unafraid. But there’s no such thing as a human without fear, and I know that for a fact. Everyone gets scared. Tony is no exception, as invulnerable as he may appear to others.

         “I have an army,” Loki says defiantly, almost like a child. A child who’s the Norse god of mischief with a scepter that can mind control people, but a child nonetheless.

         “We have a Hulk,” Tony replies sharply.

         “Oh, I thought the beast had wandered off,” Loki replies with a sneer, waving his scepter. But behind the facade I can see that his stance is wide and defensive, tense, wound up and ready to attack or react at the slightest notice.

         “You’re missing the point,” Tony says dismissively, drawing closer to the god. “There’s no throne, there is no version of this, where you come out on top.” I cross one arm around chest, propping the elbow of the other arm up on it, drink in hand as I follow the genius quietly. He’s stopped within arms reach of the god. “Maybe your army comes and maybe it’s too much for us, but it’s all on you. Because if we can’t protect the earth, you can be damned well sure we’ll avenge it.” Loki grins, and it’s a dangerous one. Any doubt that he may have had is gone.

         “How will your friends have time for me,” the god says, eyes slightly manic as he advances forward a step or two, “when they’re so busy fighting you?” With a speed almost impossible to register, he brings the scepter up and taps it against Tony’s chest. But there only a clink. Both he and the billionaire look down at it in surprise. The god tries again. “This usually works!” he mutters confusedly.

         “Well, performance issues, not uncommon,” Tony comments. “One out of five—“

         Loki growls, barely audible, and then his free hand shoots up to grip the billionaire by the chin, forcing him to drop his drink. With inhuman strength, he flings Tony across the floor, where he lands with an ‘umph’. I set down my drink, starting forwards.

         “JARVIS,” I hear the billionaire mutter, pushing himself to his feet. “Any time now.” I pause as Loki catches up to the other ravenette, seizing him by the throat this time.

         "You will all fall before me,” he growls. I hum. Not gonna lie, he’d be pretty hot if he wasn’t trying to take over the world. But then Loki throws Tony out the window, with a final shout that I don’t quite hear. My jaw drops, and I hurry over to the broken window. The sound of rocket boosters makes me whirl in surprise, and it’s only instinct that has me moving out of the way of something big and red and metal.

         Unfortunately for me, Loki is a god with inhuman reflexes and he manages to dive out of the way. He comes up with a murderous expression, and I have to leap out of the way of the golden scepter that cleaves through the air with godly speed. Spinning to the side, I swing a leg out to knock Loki’s knees out from under him. He falls, but grasps my leg and pulls me forward.

         I swear, using my other foot to kick his hands away as the whirr of machinery draws nearer. Rolling out of the window and lying on air like it’s solid ground, I look up to see Tony, clad in full Iron Man regalia, repulsors held out like he wanted a high five or something.

         “And there’s one other person you pissed off!” the genius says. “His name is Phil.” His repulsors fire with a whine, and the god goes flying somewhere back into the penthouse. But our job isn’t over yet, and a loud, hollow sound, that I can’t quite describe, only reminds us of that. Tony and I both crane our necks in order to see what’s going on, just in time to see a beam of ice-blue light shoot up from somewhere on the roof of Stark Tower, straight up into the sky.

         And where it meets the sky, a massive black hole begins to grow.


	4. That's Not How Whales Work, Dammit

         I can only gape at the growing hole in the sky—but not for long, because tiny specks moving at high speeds are suddenly zooming out of it in a black cloud. 

         “Right,” I hear Tony mutter. “Army.” He glances down at me. “Race you?” 

         “Oh, you’re on, tin can.” I roll to my feet, slipping my mask and safety goggles on as I do, pushing off with all my strength. I shoot ahead of Iron Man, but we’re both heading in the same direction: right into the swarm of hostile aliens. “Go left, I’ve got right,” I say into the radio, slamming my wrists together. There’s a satisfying _whoosh_  as two blades unfold from the armguards, about a foot and a half long. Nat likes to call them wrist reapers, since the blades look like those of a scythe. 

         “Going left,” I hear Tony mutter in reply. I narrow my eyes behind the clear plastic of my goggles, tucking my arms in tight, careful to hold the blades away from my legs, and accelerating. And then I’m right in the thick of it, ducking under some sort of alien motorcycle that _whooms_  as it zips by. “Hey, Lynx, you think your mojo would work on alien shit?” Tony asks, grunting. 

         “Let’s find out,” I reply, narrowing my eyes as I smack one of the armguards against my thigh, making the blade retract. Another alien motorcycle _whooms_ forward, and as it passes by I throw out the arm with the extended blade, hooking it onto the back and letting the cycle drag me through the air. A disgruntled, garbled howl lets me know that the driver knows that I’m tailing him, and I bring my free hand up. Grabbing the glove with my teeth, I yank it off quickly and slam my hand onto the motorcycle. 

         There’s a weak whirr, and then the speeder stutters, purple lights on the side flickering out. The alien onboard lets out a panicked grunt, and I yank my blade free of the cycle, gripping the end of the vehicle tightly as I swing myself up, one foot coming up to kick the alien in the face. I don’t stick around to watch it topple overboard, just drop off of the motorcycle, falling for a few seconds before readjusting myself. 

         “So,” I begin, shoving the glove into a pocket and angling myself up once again, “turns out my ‘mojo’, as you put it, works on alien shit.” 

         “Great,” Tony grunts. “I thought you said you had the right?” 

         “I’m coming, you impatient ass,” I grumble, whacking my armguard against my calf as I pour speed into my flight. There’s purple lasers flying all over the place, and the repulsors on the Iron Man suit create distinctive white flashes of light. Debris is raining down in a light shower, black smoke clearing away from imploded speeders. 

         Tucking into a ball, I roll under a jet of purple, and slash downwards with one arm to decaptitate an alien as it whizzes by on its speeder. Using another passing alien as a springboard, I rocket off in another direction, careening into a few cycles before digging my blades into one and flinging it at a few more. 

         “Hey, Hawkass?” I call into my radio, decaptitating another alien in a spray of blue blood. I wrinkle my nose as some of it splatters over my clothes, but whirl around in order to rugby-tackle another, shoving a blade through its neck. “Backup would be appreciated.” There’s no response, and I swear as I duck out of the way of another speeder. A white-hot jet of purple laser hits me in the side, and I swerve wildly off course, crashing into a speeder. The alien driving it takes the opportunity to grip my neck in a crushing grip. 

         My feet kick uselessly at its torso, and my breath comes out in gasps. It takes effort to bring my wrist reapers up to slice the limb off of the alien. 

         “Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew,” I rasp in rapid succession, nearly gagging as the hand around my throat goes slack. I remove the limb quickly, dropping it out of the sky. Another laser hits me, and I grunt in pain. “Alright, that’s it. I’m going glass.” 

         “Is that really what you call it?” Tony asks. There’s a grunt, and then I spot an alien fall out of the sky. 

         “See if you can come up with anything better,” I retort, biting my lip as I tug on the whirlpool of power. “I’m going to try and cut more off at the neck, gimme a sec.” There’s no repsonse from anyone, which I take as confirmation, and I slam my armguards against my thighs, grabbing my whip in my gloved hand. With a sharp crack, it buzzes to life, and I swipe it through the air, taking out a few confused Chitauri.

         “Change of plans, Lynx,” Tony suddenly says. “These fuckers are getting into the city. I need you to go down and pick them off.” I groan, reversing my position so that I’m head down. 

         “Roger that. Don’t die.” And then I let myself drop. Wind rushes past me, and a few stray bugs splatter against my goggles. I growl quietly as I push harder, slowing down a bit once I reach a lower altitude. Bringing my knees up in order to smack my armguards against them, I miss the _whoosh_  as I tilt to the side in order to avoid crashing into a building. 

         But then a flash of red zooms by, just barely missing me, and I swear quietly as I use my inner arm to wipe away the bug guts. 

         “Dammit, Thor,” I mutter, landing with enough force to crack the pavement. Chitauri immediately surround me, and I raise my arms invitingly. “Come and get me,” I mock. They lunge, and I snap for theatrical effect as I turn invisible. The aliens all crash into each other, leaving them all laying on the ground, shocked, for a moment. I use that brief lapse of activity to butcher them, and the ones who recover faster than others grab some sort of knife crossed with a laser gun to shoot wildly. 

         The benefits of being invisible: your enemy never sees you coming until you kill them. The small group is quickly disposed of, and I leap off the ground, heading down a block and slicing the head off of a few Chitauri on speeders. There’s a howl, and I look up to see a larger group of aliens heading for me, the _whoom, whoom, whoom_  of their speeders eerily synchronized. Sheathing the blade that’s on the arm attached to my gloved hand, I use it to tug my whip off of its place on my belt. It comes alive with a crack and surge of electricity. 

         “Let’s play,” I mutter. And then I swing my whip at the first wave, the cord that’s channeling the electricity slicing through them like a scythe through wheat, or whatever you use it for. Expect for that one Greek myth. I’m not going to butcher my dad today. Several purple lasers hit my chest in rapid succession, and I stumble back. I recover quickly, whip lashing out with lightning (ha, get it?) speed in order to cut the next ones down. 

         But the group is quickly getting closer, and the whip isn’t that good for blocking a million lasers at once, especially not from different angles. Sure, I could whirl it around fast enough to create a shield against larger things, but small, thin purple lasers? Not a chance. I turn and run, cracking my whip once again to deactivate it, and jamming it into my belt as I take out a handgun. I risk a glance over my shoulder, blanching. 

         “Uh, Stark,” I yell into my radio. “Good thing is that I’ve got they’re attention. Bad news is that it’s a whole lot of attention. Help would be nice!” I don't get to hear any reply, if there ever was one, because the Chitauri are upon me. Whirling around, I fire my gun seven times, six of them hitting right between the center of the eyes and the seventh going wider and embedding itself in an eyeball. 

         Seven speeders crash to the ground, and I roll out of the way of a volley of lasers. Sure, they won’t permanently damage and/or fry me, but they still hurt to get hit with. I fire off another round, ducking behind an overturned car for shelter. Peeking over the hood, I fire six more shots and hear an explosion in the distance. There’s a _whoosh_  from up above, and I glance up to see Iron Man, repulsors firing almost nonstop and three Chitauri on his tail. 

         Sirens alert me to the presence of the police, and I jump out of hiding as a small fleet of speeders zoom by overhead, heading for the officers. Whipping around, I fire seven more shots. Shoving the empty handgun back into its place on my belt, I use the nearest falling speeder as a springboard to boost my leap. I yank my whip out from its place in midair, using it to snag the neck of another Chitauri without activating it. The cord easily chops through the neck, decapitating the alien. 

         The radio on my shoulder crackles as I use one arm to impale a Chitauri, the other to lasso the handles of a speeder and yank it off course. 

         “Stark, we’re on your three and heading northeast,” I hear Nat say. I swing a leg around to kick an alien in the face, using the momentum to yank my reaper out of the corpse of the impaled alien. 

         “What, did you stop for drive-thru or something?” I hear Tony snark. 

         “You better’ve gotten some coffee,” I say, ducking under another Chitauri and coming up to imple him with my reaper, stance wide as I drag another one off of its speeder as it whizzes by with my whip simultaneously. 

         “Lynx, is now really the best time to do this?” I hear Rogers sigh into the radio. 

         “Considering I’m cranky, fighting things that aren't supposed to exist outside of movies and need caffeine stat, then yeah, this is the perfect time,” I reply dryly, kicking the Chitauri off of my blade and leaping into the air to intercept another. 

         “Swing up Park, I’m gonna lay them out for you,” I hear Tony say. I grin, taking off into the air and use another gun to fire a single shot at a passing Chitauri. The others growl as their comrade tumbles out of the air, spinning to face me. I don’t waste time, just turn tail and head towards Central Park with a little parade of aliens on my tail.

         “I’m bringing some plus ones,” I warn, swerving around the corner. I can see Central Park up ahead. “Right about… now.” I make a hard left, coming out on Park and diving low. The sound of machine gun fire reaches my ears, and I grin. I risk a quick glance over one shoulder, and see plumes of black smoke fading as the borrowed SHIELD jet circles back around. 

         “Sir, we have more incoming,” I hear JARVIS’s mechanical voice say. 

         “Fine,” Tony replies grimly. “Let’s keep ‘em occupied.” I tilt in order to go between two speeders, extending my arms to slice gashes in the sides of the speeders. Sparks of electricity tickle my skin, but I pay them no attention as I do a sharp, 180 turn in order to head for Stark Tower. There’s no doubt in my mind that Thor had headed straight to confront Loki, and Nat and Clint would probably want to offer backup. 

         And then I see the flames. The jet is falling out of the sky, left wing on fire. Flashes of red and green tell me that Loki and Thor are still fighting. The jet begins to turn away, and I heave a sigh of relief. It's veering around buildings, and the trail of smoke doesn't make it that hard to find. 

         The crash it makes when it slams into the ground makes me wince, and the plane digs into the ground before bumping into a building as it shudders to a stop. I can see movement through the clear glass of the cockpit, so I touch down, hurrying over as the cargo door opens. Steve leads the way, Nat and Clint on his heels. 

         "We gotta get back up there," the Cap says, jogging forwards. I glance at Clint. He shrugs. I follow him through the dusty air of NYC, weaving around cars until we're standing outside of... I dunno, it might be a bank but it's too dusty to make out the sign at the very top of the massive white marble building. 

         The low, growling sound that cuts through the chaos of screams makes my head snap up, and I track the source of the sound to the portal. The alien portal, from which the alien army is still pouring through. But then something blots out all the stars that I can see on the other side, and the portal gets a little bigger. A few more aliens on speeders zip out of the portal—and then the nose of something big, metallic and ugly as fuck pokes out of the portal. 

         Steve, Nat, Clint and I can only watch, half-terrified half-awestruck, as the rest of the massive being comes out of the portal in the sky. It's long, like a centipede, but has a turtle shell modified to conform to it's whale-like body that wriggling around like a fish. The teeth on it are probably taller than me, and holy shit, it's heading for the city. 

         Cruising just a foot away from the front of Stark Tower, it's gigantic body arches up as it nears the ground. A front flipper takes out a statue on top of the building that Steve, Nat, Clint and I stand in front of. The four of us all turn slowly, watching the massive... I dunno, the massive  _thing_ swim by as if it were in water. 

         White light is pulsing down the side of it, and as we watch, the whale-turtle-centipede-fish thing ejects more aliens. They're attached to it by harnesses, which snap once they're airborne and latch onto buildings. Even more are ejected, and now they're crashing through windows. I can hear the terrigied screams of tapped people on the buildings. 

         And yet, I can't move. Because this isn't something that I signed up for, and there's an entire army of aliens in front of me. 

         "Stark, are you seeing this?" Steve asks, turning. His voice brings me back, grounds me. I roll my shoulders cracking my whip and watch it light up with electricity. 

         "Seeing," Tony replies. "Still working on believing. Where's Banner? Has he shown up yet?"

         "Banner?" Steve asks, confused. 

         "Just keep me posted," Tony orders. None of us get time to reply, because all of a sudden there's a barrage of lasers being fired. Steve's shield arm snaps up, shielding him from the onslaught, and Nat and Clint dive behind an overturned taxi. The lasers sting against my skin, and hit me with about enough force to bruise, but I raise my whip and bring it around. Speeders tumble out of the sky, and when the smart ones begin to retreat in order to get out of my range, I leap off the ground. 

         As I'm about to strike an alien off of its speeder, though, there's a  _thwip_  and the alien tumbles to the ground with an arrow in it's eyesocket. I crane my neck for a brief moment, sticking my tongue out at Clint. He grins back, and I turn around, bringing my whip around for another attack. 

         Between Nat, Clint, Steve and me, we get rid of the aliens easily, regrouping behind the two assassins' taxi cab. My radio crackles. 

         "We've still got civilians trapped up here," Tony says. There's the sound of a distant explosion, and then another, closer one. Four speeders zip overhead, and I just barely catch a glance of a golden helmet in the sun and a flash of green. 

         "Loki," Steve says darkly, watching the speeders continue down the street, lasers blasting almost nonstop. Explosions obscure my view of the street. "They're fish in a barrel down there," Steve mutters. A few more speeders spot us, but Nat takes them down with a few shots from her handguns. Clint uses the redhead's fire as cover, running towards another overturned taxi cab and drawing an arrow from his quiver. 

         More Chitauri drop out of the sky, but these ones have some sort of gun with a glowing purple stripe on the side. 

         "We got this," I hear Nat say. "it's good. Go." 

         "You think you can hold them off?" Steve asks worriedly, directing the question at Clint. The archer replaces his arrow in his quiver, pressing a button on his bow. The quiver moves, aligning the arrow with a new arrowhead. I slip my glove out of my pocket, putting it on quickly. 

         "Captain, it would be my genuine pleasure," the blonde says, grinning. Then he turns, drawing the arrow and shooting within the space of a second, just as the Chitauri begin to fire. Steve and Nat surge into action, Steve going one way as Nat rises to her feet, handguns raised. I crack my whip, deactivating it as I leap over the hood of a car and draw my handguns as I land. 

         Bringing them up to fire, I brace my feet for the recoil, firing off ten clean shots. 

         "Cover me!" Clint yells all of a sudden. He doesn't wait for me to confirm before he's slinging his bow over his shoulder and making a beeline towards a bus. I move to cover him smoothly, swapping guns smoothly when the cartridge runs dry. A few minutes later, Clint reappears at my side, arrow flying before he even comes to a stop. 

         "Just like Budapest all over again!" Nat calls over the sound of gunfire. Clint and I both shoot her identical looks of disbelief. 

         "You and I remember Budapest very differently," the archer says darkly. I nod in agreement. 

         "There were way less aliens if I'm remembering right." Nat huffs, continuing to fire into the swarm of approaching Chitauri. She only has time to squeeze off a few more shots before we're forced into hand-to-hand. I lunge to the side of an alien's punch, twisting my body so that my legs come around to sweep my oppenent's out from under it. Jumping to my feet, I fire a shot into his head. 

         "Well, we got its attention," Tony declares all of a sudden. "What the hell was step two?" Clint grunts off to my side, swinging his bow under a Chitauri's feet and stabbing it with an arrow. Nat leaps up onto another alien's back, jamming her widow's bites into it's neck until it collapses. 

         "Don't" —I whip out a knife, jamming it deep into the head of a Chitauri. Over to my right, I can see Clint being tackled by anothe alien— "die!" Nat got ahold of one of the alien's guns, and uses it to shoot one in the head before spinning into a crouch and firing another shot straight through another Chitauri's chest. Clint staggers upright, arrow jammed firmly in the chest of the alien that had tackled him. 

         I jump, spinning horizontally over a swipe from an alien gun, step out of it gracefully and swivel to deliver a fatal headshot. More Chitauri are arriving. I leap over Clint, who's sliding and turning, ready to fire an arrow. Flipping over another car, I leap over one more and land solidly on top of a Chitauri. Slamming my armguards onto a nearby car, the blades whoosh out and I use them to decapitate another alien. 

         Movement out of the corner of my eye, and I bend over into a back handspring in order to avoid Steve's shield. Twisting mid-flip, I push hard with my hands to add momentum to my land, flying through the air and planting my feet in the chest of an alien attempting to come up behind Nat. Steve, Nat, Clint and I are back to back now, fighting off as many aliens as we can while watching each others' backs. 

         And then the sky booms and lighnting arcs out of the sky to electocute a group of advancing Chitauri. Thor lands a few seconds later with an earth-shattering boom. It's calm for a few moments, and the five of us use that time to regroup. 

         "What's the story upstairs?" Steve asks, advancing. I hiss, craning my neck as I jab a cut that's slowly oozing blood. I'm going to have to cover that up before it gets infected. 

         "The power surrounding the cube is impenetrable," the god says gravely. 

         "Great," I cut in, screwing up my face as Nat bandages the cut on my shoulder. 

         "Thor's right," Tony agrees abruptly. "We've gotta deal with these guys. How do we do this?" 

         "As a team," Steve replies. I roll my shoulder as I rise, just as Steve and Thor turn back to Natasha, Clint and me. 

         "I have unfinished business with Loki," the blonde demigod decalres. I snort. 

         "Yeah, get in line," Clint retorts. 

         "Save it," Steve commands, going into full Captain America mode. "Loki's gonna keep this fght focused on us and thats what we need. Without him these things could run wild. We got Stark up top, he's gonna need us—"

         The low growl cuts Steve's directions short, and even he turns to see the source of the interruption. I grin when I see who it is. 

         "About time you showed up," I say, leaning against an overturned car. Banner simply shrugs as everyone heads over to where he stands, hands in his pockets. 

         "So," the scientist says casually, "this all seems horrible." 

         "I've seen worse," Nat replies, eyeing Banner. The curly-haired man winces slightly. 

         "Sorry." 

         "No, we could use a little worse," the ex-Russian superspy admits. 

         "Stark, we got him," Steve says into his comm. "Banner, just like you said." My radio crackles. 

         "Tell him to suit up," the playboy orders. "I'm bringing the party to you." Far down the street, I spot a small speck of red and gold round the corner. And right after Tony is the whale-turtle-fish-centipede, one of its fins clipping the edge of a building. The crashing catches everyone else's attention, and everyone readies their weapons. 

         "I don't see how that's party," Nat remarks. The whale-centipede-turtle-fish thing is low to the ground now, crashing into trees and lampposts. None of them deter the beast in its goal. It just keeps on going. Banner moves forward, and so does Steve. 

         "Dr. Banner," he calls. The scientist pauses, looking back at the spupersoldier. "Now might be a good time for you to get angry." The smile Banner (Bruce, I think. We're about to face down an unholy lovechild of a centipede, a whale, a turtle and a fish) gives Steve is bitter. 

         "That's my secret, Captain," he says, beginning to advance once again. "I'm always angry." And when he turns back to face the whale-fish-centipede-turtle, his skin is turning green and he's growing in size, ripping his blue shirt to shreds. And when the alien whale-thing gets within range—one massive green fist shoots out and punches right into the metal-plated head of the beast. 

         The weight of the whale-turtle-centipede-fish thing pushes the Hulk back, and the geen giant roars. But while the front slows to a stop, the back doesn't. The tail end of the beast is rising, coming over the head and falling straight towards us. Metal plates rain down, exposing the fleshy inside of the monster. 

         "Hold on!" Tony says, circling up and launching a missile straight into the fleshy part. It explodes almost immediately, and guts and metal rain down on us. Steve shelters Nat with his shield, Clint ducks behind a car, Thor shields his face with his arm and I leap backwards, flying out of the way of any flying debris. 

         The front of the beast tips over the side of the bridge, and as the smoke begins to clear I can hear the sounds of Chitauri roaring their disproval. Hulk roars right back as the seven of us circle up, readying our weapons. Clint pulls an arrow from his quiver, nocking, drawing and sighting along the rise of his bow; Thor readjusts his grip on Mjölnir; Nat reloads her guns; Steve brings his shield up in a defensive position; Tony fires up his repulors with a whine; I holster my handguns, taking out my whip. 

         For a moment, I feel like we've accomplished something significant. But then movement from the portal catches my eye, and I turn towards it. Just in time to watch two more of the massive whale-turtle-centipede-fish things swim out along with a new wave of Chitauri. 

         "Guys," I say, frowning. "Was there any terms or conditions about fighting aliens from outer space on the contract?" 

         "There was no contract," Clint replies, frowning right back. I stick my tongue out at him. 

         "Call it, Captain," Tony says. His voice sounds small and tinny coming from inside the Iron Man armor. There's a brief moment of hesitation from Steve, but the supersoldier pulls it together quickly. 

         "Alright, listen up. Until we can close that portal up there, we're gonna use containment. Barton, I want you on that roof, eyes on everything. Call out patterns and strays. Stark, you got the perimeter. Anything gets more than three blocks out, you turn it back or you turn it to ash." Clint and Tony both nod affirmatively, and the archer glances at the genius. 

         "Wanna give me a lift?"

         "Right. Better clench up, Legolas." Grabbing Clint by the quiver, Tony fires up his boosters and the two take off quickly. 

         "Thor, you've gotta try and bottleneck that portal, slow them down," Steve commands. "You've got the lightning, light the bastards up." He looks at Natasha. "You and me, we stay here on the ground, keep the fighting here. Lynx, I want you to go after anything that Barton tells you. And Hulk... smash." The grin that the green giant gives in return in wide and fierce. And then he leaps from the bridge, landing on the side of one of the buildings that Chitauri are clinging to. 

         "Alright, let's go!" Steve commands as the next wave approaches. I lunge across the space separating my opponents from me, bringing my whip around and scything down a few before they can reach for their weapons.


	5. Closure Doesn't Usually Come In The Form Of Punching Things, But It Does Now

         It's exhilarating, to be in the thick of battle again. I didn't realize how much I needed this until I'm actually twisting away from lasers, dodging alien punches and kicking Chitauri in the face. Still, one thing that worries me is my reaction time. It's not as fast as it should be, and I know that evey split second you have could mean the diffence between life and death. I'm worried that I'm leaning towards the death side of things. 

         Still, I don't get much time to consider that, because as fast as Natasha, Steve and I take down these bastards, more take their place. I can barely keep up with it, and it gets to the point where I need a breather. So I make myself some space. 

         "Widow, Captain, get clear!" I yell, whirling around with my whip. Nat and Steve both oblige, and I bring my whip down into the pavement with both hands. Lightning lights up the ground a couple inches around the impct point, and a shockwave sends more flying backwards. Groaning, I straighten up and stretch. I'm going to be feeling that one tomorrow. Natasha jogs over and pats my back sympathetically, free hand holding her gun with a finger on the trigger. 

         "We're going to be working out when this is all over." I groan even louder this time, because let me tell you: Nat's training sessions are  _brutal_. Still, I do know the truth behind her words, so I just nod wearily in the end, bent over with my hands on my knees. 

         "Guys, we've got more incoming," Steve warns. I straighten up quickly, scooping my whip up from where I'd released the handle on the ground. 

         "Ready?" Natasha mutters. I flash her a thumbs up, stowing my whip away and slamming my armguards against my thighs, activating my wrist reapers. "Shall we?" the ex-Russian superspy asks. 

         "We shall," I mutter darkly, just as the first Chitauri reaches me. Ducking under its gun, I fling my left arm out to the side so that my reaper takes out its legs. Kicking the gun away, I slam the blade into its chest to kill it completely. Heavy footsteps on my six, and I roll out of the way just as a purple laser is fired. I jump to my feet, and the Chitauri doesn't wait for me to come to it, it just dashes towards me. I stand my ground until its a foot away—then I jump to the side, bringing down my reapers so that they cut through the aliens arm. Pirouetting, I impale its back, right where the (human) heart is. 

         My radio crackles, startling me, but I manage to jam my reaper into an alien gun and yank it out of the Chitauri's hands. 

         "Stark, you've got a lot of strays sniffing your tail," Clint says warningly. 

         "Just trying to keep them off the streets," Tony replies. He sounds a little out of breath, but I don't get much farther than that because a Chitauri slams me into the side of a bus. 

         "Well, they can't bank worth a damn," the archer offers. "Find a tight corner."

         "I will roger that," Tony replies. He's got his breath back. With a massive heavy, I manage to send the Chitauri flying with a kick, before leaping off the ground in order to shoot across the space between Steve and Nat and me. A few explosion from the radio. I flip over a Chitauri, then jam my blades into its head and drag them all the way to the small of its back as I land. 

         "Nice call," Tony says. "What else you got?"

         "Thor's taking a squadron on sixth," the archer replies. 

         "And he didn't invite me," the genius says, mock-offense in his tone. Nat's slammed onto the hood of a car, but she manage to use her leg to hook around the Chitauri's neck, using that as leverage to jam her widow's bite into its neck. Grabbing its gun, she uses that to blast its head off. Movement to my right has both Natasha and me turning, weapons raising—but it's only Steve. We both lower our weapons, Nat leaning against hers. We'd cleared out that wave, so I take the time to collapse against a nearby car after sheathing my reapers. 

         "Cap, none of this is going to mean a damn thing if we can't close that portal," the redhead pants. All three of us look up at the portal in the sky. 

         "Our biggest guns can't touch it," Steve repies. 

         "Well, maybe it's not just about guns," Natasha reasons. Steve glances at my partner, just as more Chitauri speed by, dropping foot soldiers as they do. 

         "If you want to get up there, you're going to need a ride." Nat tosses the alien weapon at me, and I catch it with a grin. 

         "I got a ride," she replies, walking a little ways away. "I could use a boost though." Steve looks up at the Chitauri speeders still whizzing by, and I see realization dawn on the part of his face that I can see from under the cowl. He backs up, and I watch their backs, wrist reapers sheathed and the alien gun-blade thing held at the ready in their place. It looks simple enough; small trigger on the bottom of the long rod (presumably the barrel), press that and it shoots. 

         "You sure about this?" I hear Steve call. 

         "Yeah," Natasha says. "It's gonna be fun." I lay down cover fire as I hear something heavy collide with metal—and then a speeder _whoom_ s away with something hanging from its end. I duck aside as a laser fires a little too close for comfort, straightening quickly in order to shoot back. The Chitauri on the other side of the bridge speed up their pace, and I barely manage to squeeze out a few more shots before they're on us. 

         I leap out of the way, tossing the Chitauri tech to one side as I dive. Rolling to my feet, I slide out of the way of a Chitauri's blade before using my hands to brace myself as I bring my feet up to kick the alien away. Scrambling to my feet, I activtvate my reaper and jam it into the Chitauri's skull. Yanking it out in one harsh, jerky move, I run back to where Steve is fending off a small group by himself. 

         The familiar whine of repulsors greets me when I flip over a laser, landing on my hands and using the momentum from the flip to propel myself into the back of a nearby alien. The impact from the flip jarrs my wrists, and the actual impact from kicking the Chitauri had sent me tumbling into a backroll, but it's worth it when the alien I had collided with flails, wildy off balance, before toppling into another small group of its fellow soldiers. A few more aliens are taken out with the now-familiar white energy from Tony's repulsors, and all of a sudden the crackle of  _energy_ makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. 

         I barely have time to duck before a particularly powerful beam of white light from the Iron Man suit sweeps over my head, mowing through the Chitauri behind me like grass. Then the Iron Man armor is gone and a Chitauri tackles me through the windows of a bus. Yelping as the glass slices through my armor and into my skin, I twist under the alien's relentless grip. Its grubby hands are making their way up to my throat, and I grab the fingers, straining to keep them away from my throat. The alien growls, pressing harder, but I press back, putting all my strength into it. The Chitauri, surprised by my sudden force, lets go, and I twist in order to send it flying back out the window. 

         The entire back of my body is stinging like crazy, but I push past the pain. Rolling my shoulders with a slight grimace, I climb out the broken window carefully. There's barely enough time for me to register that Steve is pinned by a Chitauri before four lasers hit me in the side and send me flying. My whip goes one way, dislodged from my belt when the force of the lasers sent me crashing into the side of a car, but there's no time to retrive it before the Chitauri begin firing again. 

         Swearing ferociously, I risk a glance around the hood of the car that I've taken shelter behind and nearly get a nasty black eye from a laser heading my way. As it was, it still manages to clip the side of my face, and I spit out a string of curses, left eye clenched in pain. At least the laser doesn't burn me. I'd probably have to become a female, Spanish version of Fury if that happened. 

         There's a few crashes, and then a thud. I let out a surprised yelp when the body of a Chitauri is thrown over the side of the bridge in front of me. The crunch of gravel meets my ears, and I squint up at Steve with my one available eye. He's got my whip in one gloved hand, his shield slung over his back. 

         "Lynx, are you okay?" Clint asks worriedly. 

         "Peachy," I grind out through clenched teeth. 

         "Guys, Lynx is hit," Steve says into his comm. "What do I do?" 

         "It's just a laser, nothing serious," I hear Nat yell. There's the sound of wind rushing past her at high speeds in the background. "She'll be fine; it's just a bruise. Let her up." I blink tentatively, and even if I wince I'm able to stagger to my feet, snatching at the whip in Steve's hands. 

         "C'mon, Cap, I'm not an invalid," I growl. Steve's frown deepens, and he holds my whip away from me. 

         "Lynx, you're just a kid," he protests. "This is your out. You should take it, get some rest." 

         "Rest where?" I snap. "In the hole in the ground that SHIELD dug me out of? In the city, which is being attacked by aliens from outer space? This isn't the time for me to  _rest_ , Cap! We both need to be out there, fighting, and this is wasting our time, and wasting the lives of everyone still trapped in this hellhole!" Steve's frown lessens. 

         "Lynx, I trust that you can take care of this yourself," he says, "but Fury recruited you under duress. He said that you were only here to track the cube. You shouldn't be out here, fighting with us. You were never meant to be here." 

         "Tell that to Hyrda," I snarl. "Now give me that fucking whip so that we can go kick ass and save this city!" The supersoldier looks at me with wide, guilty blue eyes weighed down with seventy years of regret. And then he hands me the whip. I wince as I turn my head to the left, gripping my whip with white knuckles. My radio crackles. 

         "Captain, a bank on 42nd past Madison," Clint informs us. "They cornered a lot of civilians in there." 

         "I'm on it," Steve says, breathing heavily as he goes to retrive his shield. 

         "Lynx, a block north and to your left is a restraunt. More of them are in there, about twenty civilians." 

         "Roger that," I reply, cracking my whip as I launch myself through the air zip down the street before crashing through yet another window. There's five Chitauri standing on a raised balcony in front of me, all pointing guns that seem to be attached to their arms at a small crowd of people out in the open, vulnerable to their weapons. 

         "Hey, assholes!" I holler, already bringing my whip around to snag the nearest alien. Electricity courses through it, and I drag it towards me before yanking my whip away in order to slam my booted foot into the aliens chest, sending it flying over the railing. Two more charge at me, and I duck under their guns. Grabbing the other end of my whip, electricity tickling the palm of my hand through the glove, I fling the loop of whip over the head of another Chitauri, tightening it around its windpipe. Yanking tight, I hear the sickening snap of its neck snapping. 

          _A man lies dead at my feet, neck broken. There's the glint of something silver in the corner of my vision. The floor is cold on my bare feet. The cage I'm in is small and cramped, the bars glowing green._

_"Put her under," I hear a male voice say. "Subject 009's trials for today are over."_

         I snap out of it when four lasers slam into the body of the dead Chitauri that I still hold in front of me. The force sends me flying back into the balcony railing, and I grunt in pain. Loosening the whip in order to release the body, I let go of the end of the whip and bring it around to cut down the remaining three Chitauri. Moving fast, I stride over to the window and sweep the broken glass out of the way. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure that no one was hurt, I brace a foot against the windowsill and push off. 

         Wind whips my ponytail around, and I angle myself up, spinning as fast as i can before stopping abruptly and letting my whip arc through the air, entangling an alien speeder. Pulling hard, I yank the speeder towards me and kick it back with as much force as I can muster. It spins like a top, crashing into a nearby building and exploding into flames. 

         "Hawkeye," I hear Natasha say into her comm. 

         "Nat, what are you doing?" Clint demands, obvious surprise in his voice. 

         "Little help?" the ex-Russian superspy replies. 

         "I got him," the archer says. Then a speeder  _whoom_ s out of nowhere, slamming into my side and sending me spinning through the air. By the time I manage to balance myself out, the speeder's coming in for another run. I whirl out of the way, then use both arms to swing my whip around to forcefully that it cuts through the speeder and its driver. My right side is burning, and I'm 95% sure that I've broken at least one rib. The left side of my face is getting painful to move, and my shoulders are aching from all the activity. 

         "Lynx, watch your six!" Clint warns me. I barely dive out of the way before four speeders bank in a wide arc in order to face me again. I crack my whip, deactivating it before unsheathing my reapers. 

         "Lets play, bitches," I mutter, charging them head-on. The first one I take out by rolling right before I reach the speeder, slamming my feet down on the head of the driver. It tailspins into a nearby building, the heat of the ensuing explosion making my hair whip around my face. The second one manages to fire off a few good shots before I twist, coming up underneath it and jamming my reapers into the bottom. Using the grip that they provide me, I let out a yell as I ram the speeder into another. The last one is taken down by Clint from afar, and I breathe a sigh of relief just as my radio crackles. 

         "I'm out of arrows," Clint grumbles. I roll my eyes. 

         "Gimme a sec," I say into the radio, rolling away from a laser. I head back towards the bridge, landing clumsily. More foot soldiers catch sight of me, immediately firing at me. I slide across the bridge and aim carefully. Four shots. Four aliens hit the ground. There's a small cluster of Chitauri downed by aliens nearby, and I jog over to their bodies. "Hey, C—Hawkeye?" I ask, carefully prying the arrow loose from the corpses. "Do you mind if there's a lot of blue blood on them? 'Cause, like, aliens and shit." The archer groans. 

         "I just need arrows, Lynx," he says gruffly. "Doesn't matter how much blood is on them." 

         "Roger that," I mumble, prying the last arrow free and dropping it to the ground with the others. "Mind giving me a location?" 

         "Office building, about a block and a quarter south of your position," Clint replies. I hear the sound of glass crunching underneath his feet. "I can see you from here." 

         "Office building, south," I mutter to my self, scooping up the arrows. "Yeah, I can do that." Then I kick off, rocketing down the street with a cluster of arrows held tightly in one hand. I loop around the office building, tumbling through an already-broken window, and Clint manages to steady me. "Thanks," I say, slightly breathless. "Here's the arrows." More speeders  _whoom_ by outside the window, and I saulte Clint before giving chase. 

         "Avengers, do you hear me?" I drop a few feet before steadying myself. "We have a missile headed straight for the city."

         "How long?" Tony replies. I put on a burst of speed and catch one of the speeders with my reapers. Yanking one out, I pull myself in as I swivel my body in midair, kicking the shooter off of the back. My feet land on the speeder, and I yank my reaper out of the speeder only to impale it in the driver.

         "Three minutes, max." I use the speeder as a kickboard, launching myself after another few speeders. "Payload will wipe out Midtown."

         "Uh, guys, what if I close the portal?" I suggest. "Y'know, fancy mojo and all." 

         "But that's only temporary," Natasha says. "Selvig says that we can shut it down with Loki's sceptre."

         "No, wait," Tony says.

         "Stark, these things are still coming," Steve grunts. I sheathe my reapers, yanking my gloves off and stuffing them in my pocket. My bare hands latch onto a speeder and it dies immediately. I kick it hard, and it crashes into a nearby building before it can reboot. 

         "Nuke, remember?" Tony says. "Less than a minute now, and I think I know where to put it." I suck in a sharp breath, using a building as a springboard to help me turn, heading for Stark Tower. 

         "Stark, that's a one-way trip if you don't get out in time." There's no answer. Seconds stretch out, and I struggle to stay in the air. I manage to make it to the roof of an office building. Breathing is painful, and I'm praying that that broken rib didn't puncture a lung. The left side of my face is killing me as-is, and I shove my goggles up with a quiet yelp of pain. 

         Something red and gold shoots by, a white object balanced on top of it. I watch Stark ascend with wide eyes, ignoring the left side of my face and the pain in my torso. Up and up and up and up—and then he disappears into the portal. One, two, three, four seconds pass. And then one of the whale-centipede-turtle-fish things falls out of the sky, heading right for the building that I'm on top of. I sprint to the edge of the roof, leaping as far and as fast as I can. There's a heart-stopping moment where I'm terrified that my flying isn't going to kick in—and then it does, just as the alien aircraft slams into the roof that I'd just deserted. 

         My flight is shaky and irregular, and I barely manage to wobble my way to a nearby roof. I don't even have the strength to land, just kinda tumble to the ground, entire body protesting. As soon as I do, though, I force myself to look up at the portal. No Stark. 

         "Close it," I hear Steve order. And then the beam connecting the potal to Stark Tower disappears, and it begins to shrink. But just before it can completely disappear, something small and red and gold falls out of it. I stagger to my feet, adrenaline pumping through me, providing me with much-needed energy, and launch off of the roof, rocketing towards the falling form of Tony Stark. Arms extended, I snag the Iron Man armor by the arms. There's a lot of momentum, and I can't stay aloft for much longer, so I settle for slowing down the inevitable fall. 

         We hit the pavement hard enough to crack it, and that does it for my legs, which collapse underneath me. I'm lucky that Tony doesn't land on me, because hauling his heavy-ass suit was not something that I'd want to do again. Thor, Steve and Hulk arrive just as I push myself to my knees, bent over Tony's head. I back away when Thor gets there, and the demigod easily rips off his mask. Steve lowers his head to check for a heartbeat, lifting it after three beats or so. Tony's eyes are closed, face peaceful. My fists clench, grit on the ground getting under my nails. My gloves are still tucked into a pouch on my belt. 

         Angers wells up in me, because this isn't how this is going to end, this shouldn't be it. Tony couldn't die, not after saving the city. He should be alive to be congratulated, he shouldn't just be another historical figure the world will remember. This isn't how it should end.

         And then Tony Stark gasps, jerking up before letting his head thunk back against the ground once more. 

         "What the hell? What just happened? Please tell me nobody kissed me."

         And I don't know whether to laugh or cry, because Tony is alive and he is safe. And Steve and Thor and even the Hulk are smiling. 

         "We won," the supersoldier says, almost like he can't believe it. I can barely believe it either. The battle was a blur, but the feeling of hopelessness is still lingering, scattered images from the battle blurring together in my mind. 

         "Alright," Tony breathes. "Hey. Alright." He's grinning now. "Good job, guys. Let's just not come in tomorrow. Let's just... take a day." The genius strains to look at the Hulk. "Have you ever tried shawarma? There's a shawarma joint about two blocks from here. I don't know what it is, but I wanna try it.”

         "We're not finished yet," Thor says. I let out a long, drawn-out groan, slumping sideways onto the Hulk's leg. 

         "And then shawarma after," I hear Tony say. 

~~~~~

         Ten minutes later, everyone is gathered in the penthouse of an absolutely totalled Stark Tower, weapons all aimed at Loki. The demigod raises his hands in surrender. 

         "If it's all the same to you, I'll have that drink now." I sheathe my reapers, striding forwards and throw my strongest right hook at the god of mischief. He's out like a light before his body even hits the floor. 

         "That's for Phil," I mutter, breathing heavily. 

~~~~~

         The next twenty-four hours are a blur. White medical rooms, people prodding me, people bustling around. Everything kinda smudges together. My torso is wrapped. My face is bandaged, so I look like I'm halfway to becoming a mummy. I get a brace for my wrist, and I'm not sure how I didn't notice that before, but it hurts like a bitch. I'm not sure what's a bruise and what's dirt, but my body is aching all over. 

         What I do know is that the white is making my headache worse, and that there's a vent on the other side of the hospital bed. I use it, drop out right in front of a certain walking American flag in civvies, scaring the shit out of him. 

         "Holy shit!" Steve exclaims. I grin tiredly, leaning against the wall. 

         "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Steve gives me his Captain America glare, but it quickly turns uncertain. 

         "Hey, um, Cam?" Steve asks awkwardly. I glance at Clint and nod at him. "I wanted to talk to you about the... the argument we had?" Captain America, the posterboy for patriotism, seems uncomfortable, and I take a moment to marvel at that before shifting my weight to my right leg. 

         "Look, I know where you were coming from," I say before Steve can open his mouth again. "I know that you thought that SHIELD recruiting a college student under duress wasn't their best move, and I know that you think that I shouldn't be out there. But you've gotta remember that I'm not just a college student, Cap. I'm also a Hyrda experiment. And that means that I'm part of something that I can't control. SHIELD recruited me for a reason. They thought that I was the best for the job and that's why they brought me in." I smile bitterly. "People don't care about age in this life, Steve. That's just how it is." 

         Steve nods slowly, but the look in his eyes tells me that he understands. Then he blinks. 

         "Aren't you supposed to be in medical?" I grin, ducking past him with a hiss of pain. 

         "Nope," I lie shamelessly. 

~~~~~

         A week after the Battle of New York, the Avengers gather to see Loki sent off. Clint has his arm slung around my shoulder, and I'm not entirely sure about who's leaning on who in this case. Selvig produces some sort of tube, which Bruce places the Tesseract in. It's being sent back to Asgard with Thor, who's keeping a tight grip on a chained, muzzled and shackled Loki. 

         Clint and I look straight at Loki, and Natasha leans in to whisper something to him. Clint smiles slowly. I flip the god of mischief the bird with my good hand. Thor offers one end of the tube to Loki. He takes it, albeit reluctantly, and Thor nods to us all once. Then he twists his end of the tube and the brothers disappear in a flash of blue light. I blink the spots out of my eyes, wincing in pain as the fading bruise on the left side of my face makes itself known. Clint's arm is heavy around my shoulder, his hand intertwined with Natasha's where it rests on my shoulder. 

         "So, Cam," Clint begins carefully. I tense. "Now that this is all over you're going back, right?" I nod slowly. "And you're going to Tandon School of Engineering?" I nod again, this time a little more confident. "Look, I'm not saying you have to, but Phil said that you lived all the way over in East Williamsburg, and I checked and saw that Bed Stuy was closer and I already have an apartment there and I was wondering if you wanted to maybe move in?" There's a beat of silence. "Like, you don't need to be involved in any of the SHIELD stuff, but I thought that it would be nice for you to be closer to your college, and..." 

         Clint uses the hand that's not attached to the arm that's slung over my shoulder to scratch his neck. 

         "And... yeah," he finishes lamely. A small smile creeps onto my face. 

         "Definitely," I reply happily. "It's been way too long." 

 ~~~~~

         A month after the Battle of New York, and I'm still not quite moved in to Clint's. And so here I am, on the phone with Tony as I dig through yet another cardboard box in search of the coffee maker Tony had sent me. 

         "Sooooo, how do those gloves of yours work, Hinojosa?" Tony asks. I hum vaguely, setting aside a textbook I'll probably need. 

         "So, y'know how my anti-electricity thing is kinda like a shield, right?" The genius grunts in understanding. "What the gloves do is dampen that shield, but not just around my hands, my entire body." A bitter grin twists my mouth as I move on to the next box. "I had 'em on when SHIELD dug me up, but I grew out of them. SHIELD dismantled the old ones, figured out how to make new ones. Not exactly the best for summer, but at least I don't have to worry about shutting down something important whenever I wear a tank top."

         "Hey, maybe swing by the Tower sometime, if I can get a look at those gloves then I may be able to hook you up with something subtler," Tony suggests. 

         "Yeah, sounds good," I reply, setting the Starkphone to speaker and placing it on the coffee table. "Clint and I have something tomorrow, and I plan to finish packing on Thursday, so I'll see if I can swing by on Friday. Maybe sooner depending on how long it takes us to find the coffeemaker." 

~~~~~

         I don't know why I thought living with Clint would be uneventful. A month and a half after the Battle of New York and we're in some sort of tangle with what Clint had dubbed the tracksuit mafia. 

         Kate is amazing. She is sane, she is calm in most situations and she kicks ass. Also she keeps me sane and brings both Clint and me coffee. 

         Lucky is sweet, even if he only eats pizza. Anything else and he'll give you those sad eyes that make you want to break down and cry. 

         Clint is a mess, even more so than usual. Especially with Barney popping up and then dying for him. That's not what he wanted for him, even if Barney was a peice of shit brother and tried to kill him. In the end, Barney gave his life for Clint and actually made an effort. I guess I can kinda forgive him. Not a whole lot, but enough. 

         Everyone in the apartment complex is running from something, and I think that's what I like best about it. Apart from the barbecues, that is. Because everyone understands that if you push for answers, bad things could happen. So nobody does. 

         Visits to the Tower (nicknamed the Avengers Tower, since all of us had a place there) were regular. Movie nights were disasters. Bruce, Tony and Steve are living there full-time, and I would but it's a little far from Tandon. 

         Tony hooks me up with bracelets that dampen my disruptor shield. Much subtler, easy to take on and off. 

         Steve tries to cook dinner one night, and gets spaghetti sauce in the hallway. 

         He's not allowed to cook dinner anymore. 

         Phil is dead. I think Clint feels that every day. We all do. 

         The nightmares don't go away. Most nights, neither of us sleep. Sometimes Kate joins us. 

         Everything's so... calm. Peaceful, safe for the occasional supervillain attack. The first time I'd been reluctant to go out. By now, I'm always happy to go, because it means tha I'm out there with my team and we all fit together like puzzle pieces. Sure, Steve and Tony butt heads a lot, but it's mostly tempered by the quick glances at each others' asses. It's kinda funny to watch, actually. 

         It doesn't seem to take that long for a year to pass. 


	6. Why You Don't Visit DC For Any Other Reasons Than Sightseeing

          Over the past year, things have really slowed down for me. Sure, occasional supervillain attacks and the tracksuit mafia keep things interesting for me, but most of my life is just going to college and staying up all night, be it for homework or because of insomnia and nightmares. It's great, don't get me wrong, but I always feel like part of me is constantly yearning for something to happen and another part of me is clinging to the normal side of my life. 

         Like if I hold onto that part of me hard enough, it'll become reality. That I'll actually be normal.

         No luck so far. 

~~~~~

         Someone calls me in the middle of the night, on one of the rare ones that I get any sleep at all. Needless to say, I'm a little pissy when I pick up. 

         "Fuck off, I'm sleeping," I snap, not even bothering to check the caller ID. 

         "Not anymore," Natasha replies. "Pack your stuff, come over to DC. Bring Clint, Fury has a mission for us." 

         "Fuck Fury," I mumble. "Call me at a reasonable hour and I might just say yes. Even better, call someone else. Like Ghost. Annoy her." 

         "I'll help you with your paper on the KGB if you get tickets to a flight to DC in the next 24 hours," Nat bargains. "And Ghost is out in Australia." I groan, but roll out of bed, landing with a thud on the floor. 

         "You're evil, you know that?" I mutter, clambering to my feet. Lucky is waiting outside the door, tail thumping against the floor of the apartment. 

         "No, I'm smart," Natasha corrects. 

         "How'd you even know about that paper anyways?" I grumble, pushing Clint's door open. He's not in there, so I stagger down the hallway to check the kitchen. 

         "I checked," the ex-Russian superspy replies matter-of-factly. Clint's in the kitchen, facedown and snoring on the kitchen island, a pot of coffee sitting next to him, untouched. 

         "Taking History as an online major was not my best decision," I mumble. "Clint's asleep. I'm gonna let him nap until a reasonable time. There any deadlines we should be meeting for arrival?"

         "Just try to get here as soon as possible," Natasha replies. Then she hangs up. I toss the phone at the sofa, and it lands with a soft  _thump_. I lean over Clint to snag his coffee pot. 

         "Fucking SHIELD," I mutter, taking a long gulp from the pot. 

~~~~~

          "Hey, Kate? Yeah, I know it's the asscrack of dawn, but Clint and I need you to watch Lucky."

          "No, this is not because Clint is stuck in the hospital again."

          "Just because we can't take care of Lucky doesn't mean that he's your dog." 

          "Just because we can't take care of Lucky doesn't mean that we're being sent on a top-secret mission for the government."

          "Fuck you, Katie-Kat."

          "Thanks."

~~~~~

          When Clint and I arrive in DC, the sun is shining way too bright and I don't know where this headache came from, but it's there and it's killing me. Natasha is waiting for us at the airport, and I glare at her in the rearview mirror as I slump into the backseat. 

          She's grown out and straightened her hair since the last time I'd seen her. 

         "Hey," Clint grunts, tumbling into the car beside me. I roll my eyes, rubbing my temples. Fucking metabolism meant no Advil. Or any other sort of over the counter drug. I can't even ask for the special, heavy-duty shit that SHIELD provides me because I'm going on an op and I can't have a cloudy head. 

         "One more stop, and then we're swinging by SHIELD," the redhead informs us, pulling out of the parking lot. 

         "That stop better be for coffee," I grumble, eyes sliding closed and head lolling against the headrest. 

         "That makes it two stops," I hear Natasha say. "But coffee comes after."

         "What else is more important than coffee?" Clint whines. 

         "Picking up the living fossil so that he's on time for the briefing," the spy replies, turning. 

         "Why exactly do we need the Captain for this?" I groan. "Let the man live in peace." 

         "A), because he signed up for this, and B), because we don't exactly have a bottomless supply of blonde supersoldiers from the 1940's," Natasha snarks. 

         "Put Clint in the suit, he'd be a good substitute," I fire back. 

         "That would ruin the image of the all-American posterboy forever," the archer mutters. 

         "Shhhh, you're not helping," I grumble, poking him with my boot. He yelps. 

         "What the fuck is that on your shoes?" the blonde exclaims. I crack my eyelids to inspect the brown substance splattered on the soles of my boots. 

         "Probably mud or Lucky's shit," I reply. 

         "Ew, shoes, no," Clint whines, scrubbing at the brown marks on his jeans. 

         "Shut up," Natasha interjects. She throws something over her shoulder, and it nails me in the shoulder. I huff, opening my eyes completely as I pick up the phone. "Text Steve, tell him that we're picking him up."

**To: Steve**

**Mission. Ass 2 the curb, coffee 2 go. If ur not ready we're leaving w/out u. :)**

          Hitting send, I toss the phone back into the front seat and lean back. A few minutes later, we pull up at the curb. 

         "Hey, fellas," Natasha calls after rolling down her window. "Either one of you know where the Smithsonian is? I'm here to pick up a fossil." 

         "That's hilarious," I hear Steve reply as I lean over Clint to roll down his window. 

         "Get in the fucking car, man, we need to get coffee," I call, brushing my hair out of my face. Captain America is in jogging clothes, and there's another man beside him. About a head shorter than him, give or take a few inches, muscular, African American. Jogging clothes too. Maybe Steve's running buddy? Nah. It might not look like it, but the blonde is a little shit. I've seen it up close and personal when it came to hoarding popcorn. 

          Steve climbs into the car, and the other man sinks into a crouch. 

          "How you doing?" he asks Natasha. 

          "Hey," is all she says. 

          "Can't run everywhere," Steve interjects, buckling his seatbelt. 

          "No, you can't," the other man agrees. Clint kicks the back of Steve's seat like a five-year-old. 

          "Do you want a functional sniper or not?" he whines. Rolling her eyes at her partner in the review mirror, Nat pulls away from the curb. 

~~~~~

          Nine cups of coffee (for Clint and me both), an hour and one cramped flight later, Steve (in full, SHIELD-updated Captain America regalia), Nat (in her usual spy gear), Clint (in his own gear, bow stored away but easy to get out) and I (in full Lynx costume, minus the mask) are on a jet over the Indian Ocean. 

          Brock Rumlow, from the STRIKE unit assigned to this op, has pulled up an image of a massive ship. 

          "Target is a mobile satellite launch platform, the Lemurian Star," he inform us. "They were sending up their last payload when pirates took them 93 minutes ago." 

          "Any demands?" Steve asks. 

          "Billion and a half," Rumlow replies. 

          "Why so steep?"

          "Because it's SHIELD's."

          "So it's not off-course, it's trespassing," Steve sighs, glancing at Natasha. 

          "I'm sure they have a good reason," the redhead replies.

          "Yeah, well, I'm getting a little tired of being Fury's janitor," the supersoldier says. 

          "Relax, it's not that complicated," Nat soothes. 

          "How many pirates?" Steve asks, turning back to Rumlow. 

          "25," the STRIKE operative replies, flipping past something and clicking on another icon. A photo pops up of a man with huge-ass ears and a massive nose. "Top mercs led by this guy, Georges Batroc. Ex-DGSE, Action Division. He's at the top of Interpol's Red Notice. Before the French demobilized him, he had 36 kill missions. This guy's got a rep for maximum casualities."

          "Hostages?"

          "Uuuuh, mostly techs," Rumlow says, swiping off of the picture and pulling up a list of names with pictures beside them. "One officer." He clicks on a picture, and it enlargens. 

          "Hey, that's Sitwell," Clint says, peering at the photo. "Phil..." He swallows. "Phil was on sick leave, he was our handler for a month, remember?" I nod shortly, stomping down on the memories that gush from that reopened wound. This was not the time to be distracted. Now was the time to focus so that nobody else would be killed. 

          "He's in the galley with the other hostages," Rumlow says, shrugging. 

          "What's Sitwell doing on a launch ship?" Steve mutters to himself, looking down to put on his gloves. He doesn't wait for an answer. "All right, I'm gonna sweep the deck and find Batroc. Cam, you're with me. Clint, take the jet and put it into stealth mode. Get as close as you can and take out whoever you can see. Nat, you kill the engines and wait for instruction. Rumlow, you sweep aft, find the hostages, get them to the life-pods, get them out." 

          "STRIKE, you heard the Cap," Rumlow says, shutting down the screen he'd been briefing us on. "Gear up." 

          It's a flurry of movement from then on. Most of them had put on the gear, but hadn't loaded up on weapons, so I have to skirt around a few guns and various other deadly weapons in order to get to the parachutes, where Clint, Nat and Steve are. 

          "Secure channel seven?" Steve says into the mix on his wrist. 

          "Seven secure," Clint says. 

          "So, you doing anything fun Saturday night?" Natasha asks casually, taking a parachute out. 

          "Well, all the guys from my barbershop quartet are dead, so," Steve grins, "not really." 

          "Cap, we're approaching the drop zone," someone says into my comm. The bracelets Tony had made for me had really helped, and now I can wear comms instead of a radio duct-taped to my shoulder. 

          "You know, if you asked Kristen out from Statistics, she'd probably say yes," Natasha says. Steve pulls his cowl on. It's not really a cowl anymore, more of a helmet. The cargo door opens. 

          "That's why I don't ask," he yells over the sound of the wind rushing past us. I walk over to the edge. 

          "Too shy, or too scared?" Nat calls to Steve as he attaches his shield to the magnets on the back of his suit. I slip my mask on, tightening the strap that keeps it in place. 

          "Too busy!" he calls over his shoulder. Then I push him off the edge of the ramp, leaping down after him. It's been a while since I've been on an op like this. Sure, lately I've been training with Nat (not as recently, since the last time I'd seen her before today was when she was about to leave for a month-long op in Florida), and when she's not available I train with Clint. But SHIELD doesn't really call me in for anything anymore (which I'm kinda grateful for, but at the same time I'm not), and something that's Avengers-scale disaster isn't that common. 

          Still, I've been involved enough to know that the reason Nat's trying to set Steve up with girls is to make Tony jealous so that he can finally grow the balls to ask Steve out. Everyone except Steve and Tony can see the looks that they give each other when they think no one is watching. Honestly, it's kinda depressing to see just how oblivious the two can be. It's a collaborative project, getting those two to woman up and confront their feelings, and I think that even JARVIS is helping. 

          Wow. Totally off-topic. Point is, I haven't really been in on ops like these in a while, and I'm pretty sure that this is Nick's way of testing me out in the field as a SHIELD agent that isn't really an agent, after two years out of the game. 

          Tucking in my arms tightly, I quickly pass Steve (physics. Small build vs. larger, broader build. No contest), and I can see the Lemurian Star up ahead. At the point where I can see the little moving dots that are the mercs on deck, I slam on the brakes, slowing myself down but not too much that I'm not drifting. A quiet  _thwip_ , and I can see one of the moving dots stop moving. Putting on a little bit of speed, I quickly near the ship, touching down on the deck quietly, near where I'd seen Clint take the guard down.

          There's a quiet splash behind me, and I peer over the side of the ship. Steve waves at me from below. It only takes about thirty seconds for him to climb up the massive chain anchoring the Lemurian Star. As soon as he's up on deck, I take off running. Turning the corner, I see two more guards crumpled on the deck, arrows poking out of their chests. Tranqs, because Captain America was on this op. 

          Steve and I keep on running, coming arcross two more guards sheltered underneath an overhang. Probably why Clint didn't get them. I veer to the side a bit, and Steve flings his shield. It collides with one, then ricochets back off of the other's head before flying back to Steve. I salute him mockingly, already running past the fallen guards. 

          Walkways are a little more complicated, but not overly so; the guards collapsed on the walkways are easy to jump over, you just have to put a little effort into your landing to make it quiet. About six more guards emerge from inside what I assume must be some sort of break room by the donuts they're all holding. I vault over the railing without pausing, landing right on top of one. Before the others can even call for help, Steve drops down and takes out another one. I whirl around, leg coming up and catching the other with a kick. 

          I duck under the punch one throws at me, then brace my hands on the ground so that I can bring my entire body around to sweep the guy's feet out from under him. Planting my feet, I use that as levrage to bring the rest of my body up, using that momentum to deliver a blow to the guy's skull that puts him out. Steve is dealing with the two other guards, and I grin. 

          Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I bring it up, waiting for the right moment. Steve flings his shield, taking out the first guy, then grabs the arm of the second guy, throwing himself forwards so that it looks like the merc had picked him up bridal-style. I press my finger to the photo button. The merc falls forwards, and Steve punches him to ensure that he's unconscious. Then he turns to me, and I can see the raised eyebrows from underneath the cowl. I shrug, tucking my phone into my pocket. 

          "I get a hundred bucks out of that," I say. 

          "From who?" Steve asks suspiciously. I shrug. 

          "You'll never know. Gimme a sec." I duck into the break room (it was definitely a break room, there's a vending machine and everything) and grab two donuts. The look Steve has on his face when I emerge is halfway between annoyed and breaking out into laughter. I hold one out. 

          "Want one?"

~~~~~

          Steve and I take down three more mercs. Just as I vault up onto the railing of the next floor, though, a fourth merc emerges from wherever he'd been hiding, gun pointed at the supersoldiers head. 

          "Hands on your head!" he barks. "Hands on your—"

          There's a quit _thwip_ , and then Rumlow lands on the deck. 

          "Thanks," Steve mutters. 

          "Yeah," the STRIKE operative says, unbuckling his parachute. "You seemed pretty helpless without me." The rest of STRIKE floats down like snowflakes from hell, and Nat lands beside me, Clint a little ways away. 

          "What about Laurie from IT?" Natasha asks as Steve begins walking again. "She seems kinda nice." 

          "Secure the engine room, then find me a date," Steve commands. There's no true annoyance in his tone, though. 

          "I'm multi-tasking," the redhead calls over her shoulder, splitting off to jump over the railing. Clint jogs up beside me, bow out and arrow nocked. Steve nods once to the archer, and Clint grins back. 

          "If you were Batroc, where would you be hiding?" Steve mutters. Clint shrugs. 

          "Most jackass leaders I meet like to hide where they can control everything without being seen so that it lowers the risk of them being seen," the blonde replies. He tilts his head. "In other words, the control room." 

          Steve nods, and then he's taking off, bouncing off walls until he's close enough to fire a special SHIELD-issued grappling hook. Clint salutes me jokingly before following Nat over the side of the railing. I hurry after Steve, but take a short cut and just fly up. Steve meets me at the top, beckoning me behind a portion of wall. The wait is excruciating, but necessary. STRIKE needs to be ready to do what their name suggests, and Nat and Clint need to secure the engine room before we can attack Batroc. 

          My comm crackles to life. 

          "Targets acquired," Rumlow says. 

          "STRIKE in position," another says. 

          "Natasha, what's your status?" Steve whispers, bringing his arm up in order to speak into the comm on his wrist. No answer. "Clint, status?"

          "Hang on!" Natasha calls. Muffled thuds.

          "Engine room secure," Clint says. 

          "On my mark," Steve whispers. I unhook my whip quietly. "Three. Two. One." I jump to my feet, sprinting in the direction of the control room. Steve's shield goes flying past my head, and I leap off the ground, cracking my whip as the shield breaks the glass. I go in feet-first, slamming into the guy who I assume is Batroc, based on the photo I'd seen during briefing. The force of the kick sends me back a few feet, out the window and into midair, but then Steve leaps past me. But Batroc has already recovered, and he kicks Steve away before making a break for it. 

          I zip into the control room, touching down and running without stopping. My whip is on my belt now. 

          "Hostages en route to extraction," I hear Rumlow say. I burst outside, Steve on my tail. 

          "Well, apparently Batroc doesn't want to be captured," I say, forgoing the steps and flying down. "Who knew, huh?" 

          "Romanoff missed the rendezvous point, Cap," Rumlow says. "We have Barton, no Romanoff. He says that he was coming back and she disappeared on him. Hostiles are still in play." 

          "Natasha, Batroc's on the move," Steve says. "Circle back to Rumlow and protect the hostages." No reply from my end. "Natasha?" Something moves out of the corner of my eye, and I step to the side. Steve barely has time to bring his shield up before Batroc's foot collides with it. The force of it pushes him back and forces him to roll. Batroc launches another kick, and I rugby tackle him to the side. I roll off him quickly, slamming my reaper against the deck. The blade unsheathes with a satisfying whoosh and I lash out with it just as Batroc makes to kick me. 

          Backing away, he's forced into Steve, and quickly reverses so that he can attack the supersoldier. Steve's shield slams into Batroc, knocking him to the ground and forcing him back towards me. The merc braces his hands against the deck and uses it as support to bring his lower body up in a movement like some sort of worm from hell. I lean to the side in order to look around Batroc, raising my eyebrows at Steve. The blonde nods. 

          "Go. I've got this." 

          I salute the supersoldier jokingly before jogging towards the door that leads down into the belly of the ship. 


	7. Fuck Hotels. And SHIELD. And Hospitals. Fuck Everything

          Getting back to the Triskelion is awkward as fuck, because Steve and Natasha keep on throwing each other these  _looks_ that tell me that there's definitely something going on. Clint is a little miffed that Nat abandonded him in the middle of a gunfight, but we both know that she wouldn't have done it if she didn't trust that he had it covered. 

          Still, we'd apprehended Batroc, but it wasn't Steve. It was Clint, because the bastard had doubled back before I reached him and Batroc was running his way. Neither Nat nor Steve had told us why Batroc had gotten away, but I think that it has something to do with the looks that are ping-ponging back and forth between the two of them. 

          As soon as the jet touches down, Steve stalks off, leaving his shield behind. He looks pissed and I see him slam the buttons of the elevator like they'd personally wronged him. 

          "Sooooo, Nat," I say, turning slowly to face her. "Anything you want to tell us?" Clint leans back in his chair, bow propped up beside him. 

          "It's nothing you need to concern yourselves with," the redhead says dismissively. 

          "Steve was hammering those buttons like they were whatever was left of Hydra," Clint points out dryly. Natasha sighs. 

          "Look, Fury gave me a separate mission," she explains. "One that didn't involve protecting the hostages. That's why he called for you two." 

          "Aaaand that mission was?" 

          "Important," the ex-Russian superspy says flatly. "And also classified." 

          Clint and I exchange looks, but we don't say anything else. 

~~~~~

          48 hours after the disaster of a mission, Clint and I are lounging around the hotel that we're in, a few doors down from where Steve is staying when the door creaks open. 

          Both of us shoot to our feet, concealed weapons at the ready in the blink of an eye—but then my eyes register that that hunched-over form is familiar, and I lower my knife. 

          "What the shit, Fury?" I ask bluntly, hurrying forwards and looping my arm under my boss'.

           "My wife kicked me out," Nick says, coughing right after. 

          "Dude, if your wife kicked you out then I don't think I want to meet her," Clint says, crossing his arms, arrow tucked under one arm. We both know that Nick isn't married. 

          "I'm sorry to have to do this, but I had no place else to crash," Nick says. I raise an eyebrow as I lay my boss down on the white couch. Aw, shit. That blood is going to stain, isn't it?

          "An actual apology that isn't riddled with underhanded comments," I say. "That's some monumental shit right there." There's something more he wants to tell us, but he needs someone else to do it. 

          "Keep talking, Hinojosa," the bald man replies. "Keep talking." He coughs again, and in the bright lights of the fancy hotel, I can see the red liquid that comes up. "Catch Rogers as he comes in," Nick manages to force out. "We should celebrate Hinojosa's first mission together." Clint goes to the door, pressing his ear against it. Nick shifts silently, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a phone. 

          "I think he's coming up now," the archer murmurs. He nods to himself. "Yup, I'll be back in a [sex](http://www.syfy.com/sites/syfy/files/wire/legacy/2658019-tumblr_mc3pdflyb71qgj9g6o4_1280.jpg)*." The blonde squeezes his eyes shut. "Sex. Sec. Gimme a sec." Then he flings the door open, narrowly avoiding hitting himself in the nose. "Heya, Rogers, you might want to step inside. We've got a surprise waiting for you in here." Clint doesn't even wait for the other blonde to reply before I see him lean through the doorway and drag the supersoldier inside, closing the door behind him. 

          It takes a second for Steve to process the scene in front of him (Nick laid out on the couch, me about to go into the kitchen to get something to mop up his wounds), and when he does I can see him stiffen. He's got a canvas bag slung over one of his shoulders, roughly the size of his shield. Huh. Nice way to cart around the shield; not too inconspicuous in a place like DC, and normal enough for people to assume that it's only being used to carry some sort of portfolio, not a glorified frisbee made out of the strongest metal know to most beings in the galaxy. 

          Man, those Chitauri sure screwed up my descriptive capabilites. 'Beings in the galaxy' doesn't quite roll off the tongue like 'humankind'. Ah, well, extra-terrestrials be damned, it's time we deal with the situation at hand. 

          ...

          ...

          ...

          Fuck you, rhymes. 

          "My wife kicked me out," Nick says in explanation, holding up his phone just as Clint shuts off the lights. **Ears everywhere** , he's typed out. I quickly retreat to the kitchen, but my enhanced hearing can pick out Steve's reply even a room away as I open up the cabinets. "Like I told these two, there wasn't any other place to party." I glance out into the living room, and see another message.  **SHIELD compromised**. I relax my shoulders intentionally, pulling out a flannel. 

          "I didn't know you were married." Oooh, trust issues. Project Insight, probably. Clint and I don't agree with it either, but we do know that the idea behind it is sound. Stop things from happening before they could happen. But there were outliers like Loki and Thor, beings from other planets that we can't take out with machine guns. Still, that question has a double meaning. Nick shifts, pulling himself up into a slumped sitting position. He flashes another message.  **Them, you, me.**

          "A lot of things you don't know about me," Nick replies as I turn on the tap, flannel in one hand. 

          "I know, Nick," Steve snaps back. (Well, not quite snaps. He's a bit too Captain America to do that. More like states sternly in a tone that only sarcastic little shits use. i should know. It's a tone that I practically patented.) "That's the problem." I run the flannel under the cold water, wringing it out as Steve continues. "Who else knows about your wife?" 

          "Just my friends," Nick says as I wring out the flannel. Steve snorts as I come back out into the living room. Nick has propped himself up into a slumped siting position. 

          "Is that what we are?" the supersoldier asks. 

          "That's up to you," my boss says casually. But there's nothing else that he can say, because at that moment, gunshots shatter the semi-silence, and Nick cries out. He collapses to the floor, and Clint dives for his bow and quiver, rolling behind the couch that Nick is slumped against now. I swear, abandoning the flannel and lunging behind the couch, yanking the handgun concealed under it out from its hiding place. I make to rise in order to peer over the couch, but a hand on my ankle stops me. I nearly scream, but manage to hold it in. Dammit, Supernatural isn't something I should be binging so late into the night. 

          "Don't trust anyone," Nick coughs out in a bare whisper. Something cold is pressed into my boot, but I don't have time to question it before someone knocks down the door. I swear in some foreign language (I know too many to pinpoint which exact language I'm speaking in, but it's heavy on my tongue and brings to mind the memory of the tang of electricity on my tongue for some reason), grabbing my wrist reapers from where they rest under the coffee table, tucking my whip under one arm. 

          "Captain Rogers?" I hear. "Captain Rogers?" I glance at Clint, and he beckons to the window. 

          "The guy is still out there," the archer hisses. "Mask, metal arm, dark hair. GO!" I don't wait for any more prompting, vaulting over the back of the couch and making for the window. The gun is clamped between my teeth and I shove my safety goggles up and fling my hands up to shield my face as I launch myself through the window. There's a building a little ways off with a roof that's high enough of a vantage point for this assassin to have gotten a hit in on Nick. I slip my reapers on in midair, and when I touch down on the roof they're secure on my forearms. 

          The assassin, whoever he was (because those shoulders are too broad to be a woman's), is already fleeing at a sprint, and I let my legs pump in overdrive, trying to catch up. Up ahead, the assassin leaps off the roof, and I grip my whip tightly, launching myself off of the ledge of the building and onto the next. As I do, I grasp the handle of my whip with both hands and bring it around. It crackles to life in midair. Just as it's about to make contact with the man, though, he snaps around and catches the whip, electricity and all. My grip on the whip slackens in surprise, and the assassin uses my shock against me. 

          It barely takes a tug for the whip to fall out of my hands, and the man tosses it aside. 

          "Какое дерьмо**," I whisper. The man just stares at me for a moment before turning—and as he does I catch sight of his metal arm, and on the shoulder of the arm is a red star that I know that I remember—

           _My head collides with metal, and I groan in pain, curling up in a fetal position on the hard stone floor._

_"Вставай***!" a gruff voice snaps. The man who the metal arm belonged to stands stock-still, hands clasped behind his back like an obedient little soldier. I spit out blood and a tooth, staggering to my feet. Because what that voice commands I must do. Because if I don't, then that means that I get hurt._

_I don't want to get hurt._

_I stand on trembling legs, facing the Soldat. It's cold. Winter is year-round in Russia. Winter. Winter. Soldat. The Winter Soldat. Soldier. Winter Soldier._

_"Оставь нас****," the voice orders. The Winter Soldier turns on heel, and the red star on his shoulder gleams in the light._

I blink once and the Winter Soldier from the present is gone. 

~~~~~

A/N's:

*That little blooper wasn't actually mine. It was from Matt Fraction's fabulous Hawkeye comics, and the page that it appeared on can be found at the link I attached in the story.

**Какое дерьмо roughly translates to 'what the shit' in Russian

***More Russian. Вставай means 'get up'

****Sooooo much Russian. Google Translate is my bitch. Оставь нас means 'leave us'

~~~~~

 "There's something wrong with me," I whisper to Clint in a corner of the viewing room. What we're supposed to be viewing is Nick Fury lying on an operating table, but my mind is so scrambled that I can't really think straight. 

          Hah. Think straight. Not me, that's for sure. 

          "Which is...?" Clint prompts, raising an eyebrow. I glance at Steve, Maria and Natasha all up at the viewing room. Nat looks frazzled, despite looking perfectly put together. She'd burst into the viewing room barely a minute ago, eyes desperate and worried. Stiill, she's engaged in a low conversation with Steve at the window. 

          "I know who made a hit on Fury," I blurt out. Clint's eyes widen, but they quickly return to normal size as his brow furrows. 

          "And that's a bad thing how?" I steal a quick glance at our friends once again, before turning back to the archer. 

          "It's not just analysis or pulling SHIELD files, Clint," I hiss. "It's from memory. And this memory didn't feel like mine, it felt like I was shoved into an entirely different body and viewed everything from their perspective." Clint leans back against the wall, face intentionally blank. 

          "What the shit," he finally says. "What the shit." 

          "What the shit what?" Natasha says. I jump, and so does Clint. 

          "Jesus mother of Mary!" the blonde yelps. 

          "I'm almost entirely sure that what you just said was Biblically inaccurate," I quip, covering up my surprise. Clint opens his mouth, but Natasha cuts in before he can really say anything. 

          "Tell me about the shooter," she commands. All previous nervous thoughts or strangeness about the memories are swept aside, and my stance gets a little more rigid. Professional. 

          "Fast, strong, with a metal arm. Left one. Red star on the shoulder." 

          "Ballistics?" 

          "Three slugs, far as I could tell. It was dark, and I don't have enhanced vision. No rifling, as far as I could tell. Nothing traceable. Probably Soviet-made. Like, old-as-dirt Soviet shit, if any." 

          A sudden increase of movement makes all three of us look over to the operating room. What we see makes us all rush over to the window, and I cross my arms, hands gripping my biceps tightly, so hard that my knuckles turn white. A nurse calls for a defibrillator. Nick seizes for a heart-stopping moment, then stills. Doesn't do anything to get my heart back to beating. 

          "Don't do this to me, Nick," Natasha whispers. Her voice is thick and hoarse, almost like she was about to cry. Why shouldn't she? Her boss, her father figure, her guardian ever since she joined SHIELD, is dying on an operating table. Ever since Phil...

          The nurses charge the defibrillator, press the two electrodes to Nick's chest. 

          "Clear!" someone calls. 

          Nick's body jerks. The heart monitor beeps. 

          "Pulse?"

          "No pulse." 

          "Don't do this to me, Nick," Natasha is saying. Repeating over and over, a mantra. "Don't do this to me." 

          The grip on my biceps tighten. Clint's face is impassive, reminiscent of the way he'd been under Loki's control. I heave in a desperate gasp of air. Clint starts, and places a hand on my shoulder, another on Nat's. Nick is still on the operating table. 

          Steve turns away. Leaves. 

          "What's the time?"

          "1:03, doctor." 

          I shove Clint's hand off of my shoulder, leave the same way Steve did. I can't face this. Not now. 

          There's a flash of memory, just like the last one. Foreign, unfamiliar, like I'm not me. 

           _Sterile white hospital walls flash by me. There's a low, throbbing pain from my left leg._

_A hollow face with hollow, empty brown eyes look down at me._

_The person's metal arm glints in the flourescent white lights of the operating room._

_"HOLD HER STILL!" someone yells._

_Pain racks my body, and all semblance of control slips out of my grasp as my whole body seizes. Strong hands hold my arms down._

_One hand is cold, and the plates pinch my skin between them._

_The slight sting of a needle._

_Darkness quickly overtakes my vision._

~~~~~

          An hour later, I'm sitting against the wall, Steve and Clint standing on either side of me. Natasha stands next to Nick's body, blocking his face from view. 

          I'm glad. I don't think I could handle seeing his face. 

          The hard drive that Nick had slipped into my boot is digging into my foot, but I make sure to act like nothing's there. There should be nothing there to anyone who's looking. 

          Maria walks into the room. I don't tip my head up to acknowledge her, just strangle my wrist with my left hand. The skin underneath the jacket is raw, and I embrace the pain, let it ground me in the here and now. Where Nick is dead. 

          "I need to take him," Maria says softly, voice strained. She's been crying, I can tell without looking. 

          Clint moves away from the wall, stopping after a few moments. 

          "Tasha," I hear him murmur. There's a slight shift, and then all of a sudden Natasha hurries out of the room. 

          Her steps are strong. Purposeful. 

          I follow her out, right behind Steve and Clint. Try not to wince when the hard drive stabs the sole of my foot. 

          "Natasha!" Steve calls. The redhead whirls around. 

          "Why was Fury in your hotel room?" she demands. Clint opens his mouth, but Steve cuts in before he can say anything. 

          "I don't know," the supersoldier says, shrugging. 

          Heavy footsteps from behind. 

          "Cap, they want you back at SHIELD," Rumlow says. 

          "Yeah, give me a second," Steve replies. 

          "They want you now," Rumlow insists. Steve, Clint, Natasha and I all stop and look at him for a moment. 

          "Okay," Steve relents, a frustrated note to his tone. Rumlow nods and turns, going back the way he'd come. 

          "You're a terrible liar," Natasha remarks. Her eyes flicker to Clint. He nods. 

          I watch Natasha turn on heel and stalk down the hall with a sense of trepidation. 

~~~~~

          Two hours later, Natasha calls me up and tells me that Kate broke her leg and is down in surgery. 

          Kate is back in Bed Stuy petsitting Lucky. 

          I grab Clint and we grab weapons before heading over to the hospital. 

~~~~~

          "Do you have it?" Natasha asks without preamble. I give her my best clueless look. Clint is better at this than me. He's a pro at acting clueless even if he knows exactly what the fuck is going on.  _Especially_ if he knows exactly what the fuck is going on. 

          "Have what?" I ask. 

          "Whatever he gave you," the redhead snaps. I glance around. 

          "Get Steve. We need to talk." Natasha gives me a once-over, then another look at Clint. He shrugs. She pulls out her phone. Dials Steve. 

          "You know who killed him, don't you?" she asks as the call goes through. My posture immediately tightens, and I cross my arms. 

          "And?" I ask defensively. 

          "And I think I do too," she replies. The phone clicks and Steve's voice comes through. 

          "Natasha, this really isn't the time," he says.

          "Clint and Cam and here," the ex-Russian superspy cuts in, ignoring the supersoldier's protests. "We all need to talk to you." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DRAMA. Lots of sentences that are spaced out to make the chapter seem longer. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I'm trying to keep to the original plot of the Winter Soldier as best as I can, but there's a lot that I want to worm in that's definitely not canon. Thanks for reading!


	8. Fuckity Fuck Fuck Fuck

          Steve arrives in a hurry.

          Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. 

          "Why did I get a notification that said to be on the lookout for you because you're a wanted criminal by SHIELD?" the redhead asks, holding up her phone. Clint and I both make a noise. 

          "When did you get that, and why didn't you tell us?" Clint complains. 

          "Dramatic effect," our partner replies, staight-faced. Steve looks wary, and begins to back away slowly. Natasha holds up a hand. "Calm down, Rogers, I'm not here to bring you in. This one" —she points at me, sticking her phone back into her pocket with her other hand— "has something to tell you." I shoot Nat a look, before grabbing both her and Clint by the wrist, trusting Steve to follow us into a room opposite of the vending machine Clint and I had met Nat outside of. 

          Releasing the two assassins, I wheel around to face all three of my friends. 

          "When Nick was... dying, he slipped something into my boot," I say, forcing the word 'dying' out of my mouth. I bend down to untie my boot in order to hide how I blink away tears. "I don't know what it was, I didn't think it was safe until now," I add, feeling around my boot. I'm proud of how my voice is strong and steady. My fingers brush against the object and I quickly pull it out. Natasha walks forward, snatching the thing out of my hand before I can even get a good look at it. 

          "This is the hard drive that I gave to Nick after we got back from the Lemurian Star," she says, brow furrowed. 

          "What's on it?" Steve asks, frowning with his arms crossed. 

          "I don't know," Nat replies, turning the hard drive over in her hands. 

          "Stop lying—"

          "I only act like I know everything, Cap," Natasha snarks back, handing the hard drive back to me. 

          "I bet you knew Fury hired the pirates, didn't you?" Steve snaps accusatorily. I blink. Raise my hand. 

          "News to me," I say. 

          "Well, it makes sense," Natasha reasons. "The ship was dirty, Fury needed a way in, so did you." 

          "I'm not gonna ask you again," Steve growls, getting up in Natasha's face. I raise my hand again, clearing my throat. The supersoldier and the spy both turn to look at me. 

          "I'm pretty sure that Nat and I know who killed Fury," I say. Steve steps away from Natasha, eyebrows raised. I bite my lip, crossing my arms. "Natasha probably knows more of the specifics, but when I was on the roof I tried to get him with my whip." I swallow nervously, glancing at Clint. "And, uh, I... I don't know what it was, but it was like a memory and..."

_"Это и есть тот самый?" a quiet, female voice says softly. MaMa. She wants what's best for me. There's a pained whimper, and then the thud of a fist meeting skin. I hang my head, staring at my feet to avoid looking at the scene in front of me at all costs._

_"Позитивный," a more masculine one says. All of a sudden, there's a hand forcing my chin up. It's gloved, and the slippery feeling of the plastic makes my skin crawl._

_"Посмотри на меня," MaMa says. I look at her. Don't try to restrain the tears that are falling from my eyes. MaMa rolls her eyes, using her gloved hands to wipe away the tears without any tenderness. "Я хочу, чтобы ты взял этот нож и убить ту девушку.," she says, pressing a cold blade into my hand. My eyes dart over to where a girl, about four, maybe five, is kneeling on cold stone floor. Tear tracks glisten in the bright lights of the room, and there's a man holding onto her neck, forcing her to meet my eyes._

_"Знаешь, почему ты должен это сделать?" MaMa asks. Her brown eyes hold no warmth, no compassion. Just apathy. Blankness. I nod as well as I can with her hand still holding my head up. "Почему?" MaMa asks sharply, grip tightening. I cry out in pain, but MaMa just stares at me. No emotions. Just a blank slate. "Объяснить мне," she orders._

_I swallow, grip tightening on the knife._

_I could use it to kill her. Kill the man, too. But I know that if I do that, I'll get punished. I can always hear Winter being punished, no matter where I am._

_Whenever he talks about a skinny blonde from Brooklyn. 40.6782° N, 73.9442° W. Brooklyn._

_"Потому что я ей рассказала," I whisper. "Потому что я хотел, чтобы она была моим другом." MaMa smiles, but it's not one like I've seen women give to their subjects. The girl (I'd never gotten her name, hadn't had time to before MaMa had swooped in and taken me home) had told me that my MaMa sounded mean._

_Mean. Unkind. Spiteful. Aggressive._

_MaMa is all of those things. But she is my MaMa. MaMa is good._

_Right?_

_"У тебя нет друзей, котенок," MaMa says sweetly. Smiling. Smiling is good. Smiling means someone is happy. I nod, because MaMa is happy. She lets go of my chin and her hands fall to my shoulders, turning me around to face the girl and giving me a little shove. "И ты не можешь никому рассказать о нас," MaMa whispers. I nod obediently. Advance towards the girl._

~~~~~

**A little A/N for this little sequence above: I'm sorry if the Russian is shitty, I don't speak the language (although I would like to), so I used an online translator. I hope I didn't butcher it too badly. The following is the conversation translated into English.**

Is this the one?

Affirmative.

Look at me.

I want you to take this knife and use it to kill that girl.

You know why you have to do this?

Why?

Explain to me.

Because I told her.

Because I wanted her to be my friend.

You do not have friends, kitten.

And you cannot tell anyone about us. 

**Resume story in normal time.**

~~~~~

          "Cam? Cam? Hey, Lynx, you're kinda freaking us out right now." 

          Somebody pokes me, and my hand shoots out on autopilot, snagging the wrist attached to the hand attached to the finger and twisting it hard. A sharp yell of pain snaps me out of it, and I quickly let go. 

          Clint rubs his wrist, giving me a kicked-puppy look that I swear Lucky learnt from him. 

          "Ow," he says. A hand falls onto my shoulder, and I jump before realizing that it's just Steve. 

          "You all right, Cam?" the supersoldier asks, brow furrowed. I frown. 

          "I... don't know," I admit. "It was another one of those memories." Clint's brow furrows. 

          "But you said that they weren't quite memories," he points out. I nod slowly. 

          "It was like being pulled out of my body and being stuffed into another one," I recall out loud. "It felt real, like I was there, but I wasn't in control of my body." 

          Natasha looks a little worried. 

          "What does that mean?" she asks. I shrug as well as I can with Steve's hand on my shoulder. 

          "It happened right as I was about to tell you about" — _silver knife, blood on my hand, MaMa, dead girl_ — "oh my god." 

          "What is it?" Clint asks, taking a step forwards. 

          "It's happening again," I mumble, hands coming up to my head. I press my palms to my temples, rubbing in little circles.  _Can't tell anyone. A gentle shove to direct me towards the girl, the hilt of the knife in my hand._  

          "Cam, stop," Natasha orders, gripping my wrists and pulling my hands away. My eyes dart around wildly before finally settling on my partner's green ones. "Whatever this is doing to you, it's not good," the redhead says firmly. "Stop trying and let me explain." My breaths are coming out in harsh huffs, and there's someone rubbing soothing circles onto my back. My breath evens out now that I'm not under pressure to tell anyone anything, and Natasha lets go of my wrists, turning to Steve. 

          Clint is still rubbing comforting patterns onto my back. 

          "Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists," Natasha begins in a low voice. "The ones that do call him the Winter Soldier. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years." 

          "So he's a ghost story," Steve says. It comes out a little more than a question than it was probably meant to. I straighten up a bit, and Clint's hand drops to his side. 

          "Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran," Natasha replies, words getting a little faster now. "Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out. But the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him straight through me." She tugs up her shirt, revealing a not-so-old scar. "Soviet Slug. No rifling. Bye-bye bikinis." She puts her shirt back down. 

          "Yeah, bet you look terrible in them now," Steve replies, deadpan. Clint and I exchange looks, because the Odessa story wasn't one Natasha shared often. It was one of few failures that I could count on one hand with fingers to spare. This shit was serious. 

          I should know. 

          I'm the one getting random memories of someone that I'm pretty sure I've never been. 

          "Going after him is a dead end," Clint says, crossing his arms. "All of us have tried. He's pretty much a ghost story." I bend to pick up the hard drive that I can't even remember dropping. 

          "Let's find out what this ghost wants," I mumble, holding the drive up. 

~~~~~

          An hour, a few stolen hats and four cups of coffee later, Steve, Natasha, Clint and I are all walking through a mall. 

          I glance over at Steve and grin at his hasty steps. 

          "First rule of going on the run is don't run, walk," Natasha says on the supersoldier's other side. 

          "If I run in these shoes, they're gonna fall off," Steve replies. Clint nudges me subtly, gesturing with the slightest tilt of his head. I follow his gaze. Apple Store. I change my direction ever-so-slightly, and Natasha does the same on the other side of the non-archer-blonde, steering him towards the store. Once we're in, Clint and I split off to "inspect" some computers. 

          Aka, take advantage of the free WiFi and play games while listening in on Steve and Nat on the other end of the store. 

          "The drive has a Level Six homing program, so as soon as we boot up SHIELD will know exactly where we are," Natasha is saying quietly. 

          "How much time will we have?" Steve asks. I knock over a tower of green pigs. 

          "About nine minutes from" —there's the click of the hard drive being inserted— "now."

          I swap to 2048.

          "Fury was right about that ship," Natasha murmurs. I merge a four with another four. "Somebody's trying to hide something." I strain to hear anything over a slight increase of customers. "This drive is protected by some sort of AI. It keeps rewriting itself to counter my commands." 

          "Can you override it?" 

          "The person who developed this is slightly smarter than me." A pause. "Slightly." The speed of clicking keys increases a little bit, but it might just be Clint looking something up on the Internet. I glance over.  _How much pizza is too much pizza?_

          "I'm going to try running a tracer," Natasha mutters. "This is a program SHIELD developed to track hostile malware after Clint bribed the Sci Div into bugging the system for Valentine's Day, so if we can't read the file, maybe we can find out where it came from." 

          "Can I help you guys with anything?" a voice suddenly asks. I stiffen as I glance out of the corner of my eye. It's an employee, talking to Steve and Natasha. I watch them out of the corner of my eye, clicking random keys on my keyboard. 

          Natasha smiles, squeezing Steve's shoulder and resting her head on top of it. 

          "No, my fiance was just helping me with some honeymoon destinations." 

          "Right," Steve says quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. "We're getting married." 

          "Congratulations!" the employee says. He's beaming, but it's almost a little too bright. I roll my eyes at myself. You're in a store. He's an employee. They all have to be a little bit extra if they want to get paid. "Where are you guys thinking about going?"

          There's a beat of silence, almost undetectable. A quiet beep from the computer. 

          "New Jersey," Steve replies, nodding awkwardly. Natasha goes back to the computer, and I glance back at my screen just as I press the down button and lose the game. I click restart. 

          "I have the exact same glasses," I hear the employee say enthusiastically. 

          "Wow, you two are practically twins," Nat comments dryly. 

          "Yeah, I wish." A pause. "Specimen." I glance over just in time to see the guy beam. "If you guys need anything, I've been Aaron." 

          "Thank you." 

          Footsteps. 

          "You said nine minutes," Steve mutters. "Come on." 

          "Shhh, relax," Natasha replies. A pause. "Got it. You know it?" 

          "I used to. Let's go." A click, and then I see the superspy and the supersoldier walk in front of me on the other side of the table. Clint starts a new game of Flappy Bird. I close out of my tabs, head out of the store and tug my beanie down to make sure that all of my blue hair is hidden. It's loud out here, with a lot more people than the Apple Store, so I have to focus hard in order to listen in on the conversation that Nat and Steve are having. 

          "Standard tac team," the supersoldier murmurs. "Two behind, two across and two coming straight at us. If they make us, I'll engage, you hit the south escalator to the metro." I quickly duck into a nearby Victoria's Secret, praying that the tac team sent out are male, just as Natasha responds. 

          "Shut up and put your arm around me. Laugh at something I said."

          "What?" 

          "Do it." 

          I hear him do as commanded, and a couple agents that I recognize from STRIKE walk by me. I breathe a sigh of relief, turning back to rejoin the crowd, making a beeline for a Barnes & Noble. I'm not paying attention to Nat or Steve right now, but I do spot Clint moving away from another pair of STRIKE agents. 

          Spotting a girl, I quickly sling my arm around her as I spot anothe pair of agents. 

          "Really sorry, but I just broke up with my ex and she's here with another girl," I mutter into the girl's ear. Thankfully, she catches on quick and laughs, slipping an arm around my shoulders. 

          "It's okay, I get the feeling," she replies, winking. I laugh, glancing over my shoulder to make sure that the agents have passed me by. 

          "Thank you so much," I say, smiling at her as I detach myself from her. 

          "No problem," she replies, waving at me as I hurry off. 


	9. Absorbing Explosions = Ow

          As soon as we're out of the city limits, Steve floors the gas on the stolen car. Clint and I are sprawled out in the backseat, and Nat is comfortable with her feet propped up on the dashboard. I have a few unfinished worksheets out, propped up on Clint's legs as I scrawl out answers. 

          "Where did Captain America learn how to steal a car?" Natasha teases. 

          "Nazi Germany," the supersoldier replies, straight-faced. I'm not even sure why I expected him to crack up, he probably did learn how to hotwire cars in Nazi Germany. "And we're borrowing," Steve adds. "Take your feet off the dash." 

          Surprisingly, Nat actually obeys, throwing a look at Steve. I rerun another string of code in my head before scribbling it down. She wants something from him, and she's probably going to get it. Natasha always does. 

          "All right, I have a question for you," the redhead declares. I hum quietly to myself. Didn't expect her to be that blunt. "Which you do not have to answer," Natasha adds quickly. "But I feel like if you don't answer it, though, you're kind of answering it, you know?" 

          "What?" Clint groans, obviously fed up with the suspense. 

          "Was that your first kiss since 1945?" Natasha asks bluntly. I swear, nearly dropping my pen, and Clint's legs jerk, sending my worksheets flying. 

          "That bad, huh?" 

          "You two kissed?" Clint demands. 

          "I didn't say that," Natasha protests, ignoring the archer. 

          "Well, it kind of sounds like that's what you're saying." 

          "No, I didn't," Natasha insists as I fix Clint's legs and search for the worksheet that I was in the middle of completing. "I just wondered how much practice you've had." 

          "You don't need practice," Steve says defensively. 

          "Everybody needs practice."

          "It was not my first kiss since 1945," Steve sighs. "I'm 95, not dead."

          "Nobody special though?" Natasha asks slyly. 

          "Believe it or not, it's kind of hard to find someone with shared life experience," the supersoldier says dryly. 

          "Well, there's me, but, no offense, you're not really my type," I pipe up. 

          "It doesn't matter, you can just make something up," Natasha suggests. 

          "What, like you?" Steve asks sarcastically. I bite my lip and try to refocus on my worksheets. 

          "I don't know. The truth is a matter of circumstance. It's not all things to all people, all the time. Neither am I." 

          "That's a tough way to live." 

          "But that's how we don't die," Clint interjects, moving so that his feet are on the floor. I whack him with my worksheets, moving them onto my knee. 

          "You know, it's kind of hard to trust someone when you don't know who that someone really is," Steve points out. Clint tenses up, and Natasha's mouth remains sealed. 

          "Who do you want us to be, Cap?" Clint finally asks. It's short and precise, with a stiff tone to it.

          "How about a friend?" All three of us spies and assassins snort. 

          "Well, there's a chance you might be in the wrong business, Rogers," Natasha says for all of us.  

~~~~~

          "This is it?" Steve asks, climbing out of the truck. 

          "The file came from these coordinates," Natasha replies. She has her StarkPhone out, display lit up. Clint's grip on the rise of his bow is white-knuckled, and his hand keeps on drifting towards his quiver. 

          "So did I," Steve says. "This camp is where I was trained." Natasha is walking around, StarkPhone held aloft. Probably scanning for something to pinpoint where, exactly, the file was from. 

          "Change much?" Clint asks dryly. 

          "A little," Steve replies. I hum, arms crossed as I track Nat's progress around the building we're standing in front of. 

          "This is a dead end," the redhead declares, tucking her StarkPhone into her pocket. "Zero heat signatures, zero waves, not even radio. Whoever wrote the file must have used a router to throw people off." 

          Beside me, Steve shifts, drawing attention from both Natasha and Clint. I track his gaze, following it to a grey stone building a little ways off. Pobably used to store munitions back when this base was active. 

          "What is it?" the Russian asks. 

          "Army regulations forbid storing munitions within 500 yards of the barracks," Steve says, already hurrying over. "This building is in the wrong place." We reach the door quickly. 

          Heavy duty, but only one padlock to secure it closed. Steve breaks it easily with a quick blow of his shield. 

          The door leads us to a set of stairs, which Steve leads the way down. Natasha is right behind him, Clint behind her and me behind him. As we step off the stairs, I can just see the vague form of Steve switching the lights on. I blink once for my eyes to adjust to the new lighting, and the first thing I see when they do is a familiar logo emblazoned on the far wall. Clint sucks in a shocked breath from in front of me as the four of us advance forwards slowly. 

          "This is SHIELD," Natasha murmurs. "Maybe where it started." She crosses the room slowly, going through a door just to the right of the SHIELD logo on the far wall. The room behind it is filled with shelves, but right as you enter there's a line of framed pictures on the wall.

          "And there's Tony's dickbag dad," Clint mutters, peering at a photo of Howard Stark, which is directly next to that of Peggy Carter's. 

          "Howard," Steve says softly, sorrow in his voice. He turns away, as if the pictures physically pained him to look at, wandering over to a shelf with the rest of us following. Clint stops in front of a shelf before he can pass it, though, and both Nat and Steve turn to look at him. The archer gestures to the small crack between two shelves, and I see that the one I'm standing in front of it slightly in front of the other. 

          The four of us exchange looks. 

          "If you're already working in a secret office," Steve mutters, using one hand to pull the shelf away, "why do you need to hide the elevator?" There's a set of doors in front of us, and a keypad off to one side. Natasha holds her StarkPhone up to it, and numbers quickly pop up on the screen, which she types into the keypad. A light above it turns green, and the doors whoosh open. 

          All four of us squish inside, shield, supersoldier, bow, assassins, archer, weapons and all. I brace myself as the elevator shoots down, and soon enough the doors open quietly. Everyone steps out with minor jostling, eyeing the new room cautiously. As far as I can tell, the room's full of servers. Old ones, by the look of them. 

          "This can't be the data point," Natasha murmurs, advancing towards a computer almost older than me at the center of the room. "This technology is ancient." The rest of us follow her, just as the computer screen flickers on. There's some sort of camera on top, and it shifts to scan the four of us as a pair of glasses appear onscreen. 

          "Rogers, Steven," an automated voice says. There's an accent, something European. Possibly Swedish, maybe Dutch. "Born 1918. Romanoff, Natalia Alianovna, born 1984. Barton, Clinton, born 1971. Subject 009, birthdate classified." I can feel my eyes widen involuntarily, and I take a step forwards. 

          "What do you mean by Subject 009?" I whisper. Natasha reaches out, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me back. 

          "Cam, it's just some kind of recording," the redhead mutters. 

          "I am not a recording, Fraulien," the computer says mildly. "I may not be the man I was when the Captain took me prisoner in 1945." On another screen, a fuzzy black and white picture of a grumpy-looking man with the same round glasses as the computer pops up. "But I am." As soon as my eyes skip over to the picture, I gasp and clap a hand to my forehead as a searing headache makes my vision white out for a moment. 

_Bright white lights that shone even through my closed eyelids, white lab coats hurrying around as syringes poked at my skin, a smiling man in round glasses—_

          "Ah, so it worked," the computer says. I gasp, one hand fisted against my forehead and one hand clutching at Steve's rock-hard bicep to keep me upright. My eyes are watering with pain, and my entire body aches. 

          "What worked?" Natasha asked sharply. The face onscreen disappears, and the green face on the larger computer shifts. It takes me a moment for me to realize that whoever this is is smiling. 

          "Telling you would take away the fun, wouldn't it?" the computer says in a falsely jovial tone. Steve's face is blank and expressionless, but his blue eyes are cold and flinty glaciers. 

          "Arnim Zola was a German scientist who worked for the Red Skull," the blonde says as Clint circles around the computer, inspecting the ancient contraption. "He's been dead for years." 

          "First correction: I am Swiss," Zola says. My grip on Steve's bicep is white-knuckled, but the supersoldier doesn't complain. "Second, look around you. I have never been more alive." A pause. "In 1972, I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body. My mind, however, was worth saving on 200,000 feet of databanks. You are standing in my brain." Clint returns to the front of the platform where the computer is mounted, face grim. 

          "How did you get here?" Steve asks tersely. 

          "Invited," Zola replies simply. Steve glances at Natasha as I relax my grip on his bicep ever-so-slightly. The redhead has a look of sudden realization.

          "It was Operation Paperclip after World War II," the superspy says. "SHIELD recruited German scientists with strategic value."

          "They thought I could help their cause," Zola says, weird digital smile still in place. "I also helped my own." 

          "Hydra died with the Red Skull," Steve insists with narrow eyes. The screen flickers, and a logo that I still have nightmares about pops up in Zola's face's place. 

          "Cut off one head, two more shall take it's place." 

           _Hyrda's emblem flashes through my field of vision as I'm dragged down a cold stone hall, the same emblem flashes again as I snap another man's neck, yet again as I—_

          "Prove it," Steve commands, snapping me out of... whatever that was. Zola's face flickers back on. 

          "Accessing archive," an automated voice says. A grainy photo pops up of the face of a man in front of rows upon rows of Nazi's. "Hydra was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom." Onscreen, Nazi's salute in unison. The film cuts to soldiers running out of some sort of transportation vehicle. "What we did not realize" —grainy photos of someone who I assume must be the Red Skull— "was that if you try to try to take that freedom, they resist." A few clips of Steve back in the war, waving on soldiers. "The war taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly." 

          Clips of Steve from the '40's, then of the SHIELD logo before landing on a picture of Howard Stark, Peggy Carter in the background. 

          "After the war, SHIELD was founded, and I was recruited." Photos of Zola, then of a newspaper headline. "The new Hydra grew." A zoomed-in picture of Zola, then flashes of people, some of which I recognized from the SHIELD history course. "A beautiful parasite inside SHIELD for 70 years. Hydra has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war, and when history did not cooperate" —a flash of a metal arm with a red star— "history was changed." 

          Steve, Natasha, Clint and I all move closer to the computer. 

          "That's impossible, SHIELD would have stopped you," Natasha insists. 

          "Accidents will happen," Zola admits. My eyes widen when a picture of Maria and Howard Stark pop up, the headline above them declaring their deaths by tragic car accident. A picture of Nick, and I nearly choke. "Hydra created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrific its freedom to gain its security." Flashes of footage, and then a clip of the launch bay for Project Insight. "Once the purification process is complete, Hyrdra's new world order will arise." A clip of old '40's newspaper declare Steve missing, another more recent one depicting him as 'The Hero Who Lost Everything'. "We won, Captain. Your death amounts to the same as your life. A zero sum." 

          Steve's bicep is ripped out of my grip, and I nearly tumble to the floor as his fist rams into the computer. Natasha catches me by the arm, steadying me before letting go. The other computer screen flickers before Zola appears onscreen again. 

          "As I was saying—"

          "What's on this drive?" Steve demands. I glance down, shaking off the lingering wooziness. The drive that Nick had slipped me is plugged into the computer, and I can't remember seeing Nat do that. 

          "Project Insight requires insight," Zola replies. "So, I wrote an algorithm."

          "What kind of algorithm? What does it do?" Natasha asks quickly. 

          "The answer to your question is fascinating," Zola says. "Unfortunately, you shall be too dead to hear it." There's a whirring, and Steve whips around, shield already in motion. Too late. The glorified frisbee bounces off the closed doors of the elevator, and I duck so that I won't get hit as it returns to the supersoldier. 

          "Guys, we got a bogey," Natasha warns. "Short range ballistic. 30 seconds tops." 

          "Who fired it?" Steve asks. 

          "SHIELD," the redhead replies, looking back at him with worry in her eyes. 

          "I am afraid I have been stalling, Captain," Zola says from the computer. Natasha hurries over, snatching the drive from the plug. "My one regret is that I did not live to see the day that Subject 009 lived up to her full potential." Steve tears away the vent covering in the floor, and Clint quickly jumps in, followed by Nat. 

          "Cam, we have to go!" Steve yells. 

          "No, not until he tells me what the fuck he means by that!" I yell back, rounding on Zola. The computer simply smiles. 

          "I am afraid that all of us are out of time," Zola says. 

          And then the world turns red. 


	10. Plotting to Overthrow My Boss (Kids, Don't Do This at Home Unless You're an Assassin)

          Waking up is painful, even if I haven't even moved yet. There's light piercing my closed eyelids, and I whimper when I make an attempt to bring a hand up to shield them. 

          There's a warm hand on mine, pushing my hand down gently. The light disappears, and I crack one eyelid open painfully. Clint is sitting by my side, purple hearing aids absent from his ears. 

           **Careful** , he signs. I make to bring my hands up to sign, but he presses them down once more.  **Remember Runner? Name S-A-M.** I pause. Consider the question.  **Before mission** , the archer adds helpfully. My eyes widen in realization before narrowing once more in order to squint in pain. Clint rolls his eyes.  **At his house now. Safe.** A pause.  **Blast ruin aids** **. Red pick up new now.** I would nod, but by now I've concluded that any sort of movement will cause me pain, so I settle for just looking at Ciint. He smirks, raising his hands again, but there's a knock on the door.

          My eyes move to the doorway, and Clint follows my gaze to the vaguely familiar form of the guy that Steve probably ran circles around back at the Washington Monument. 

          "Uh, Steve is starting on breakfast if either of you want any," Sam says. I grit my teeth and muscle through the pain, because Jesus fucking Christ I am hungry and my stomach is screaming for attention. 

           **Food** , I sign at Clint. His eyes brighten, and he loops an arm under mine to help hoist me up. I make a face, but the other guy comes over to my other side and helps haul me downstairs. Steve's already there, sitting at the kitchen counter, and he smiles as I collapse into the chair across from him with a pained groan. 

          "Should've known that you'd only get out of bed fo food," the supersoldier says. I stick my tongue out at him, but then Sam sets down a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me and I'm distracted for a good while. 

          At some point, Natasha returns and hands Clint a fresh set of aids. The archer locks challenging eyes onto Sam as he puts them on, but the other man simply stares for a few short seconds before shrugging and continuing to eat breakfast at midday.

          "So, the question is, who at SHIELD could launch a domestic missile strike?" Natasha asks, going straight to business. 

          "Pierce," Steve says almost immediately. 

          "Who's sitting pretty in the most secure building in the world," Clint points out around a mouthful of egg. 

          "But he's not working alone," Steve says. "Zola's algorithm was on the Lemurian Star." I sit up straight, scrunching my nose up in pain. It's not as bad as when I woke up, but it still kinda sucks. 

          "Jasper Sitwell was the only agent out of all the techs there," I say. 

          "So, the real question is, how do the four most wanted people in Washington kidnap a SHIELD officer in broad daylight," Steve concludes grimly. 

          "The answer is," Sam begins, rounding the kitchen counter with some sort of file in hand, "you don't." He placed the file down on the table, and my hand shoots out to swipe the file off the table before anyone else. Clint gets up from his seat and moves behind me to look over my shoulder.

          On top of the file is a picture of three men, each in some sort of rig with a lot of belts and buckles. 

          "What's this?" Steve asks, standing up to come look as we'll. 

          "Call it a résumé," Sam says, arms crossed. Nat's arm snakes around my shoulders, lifting the picture from my grasp. 

          "Is this Bakhmal?" she asks, a faint note of surprise in her tone. I blink to make sure that everything that's happening is real, because Natasha is almost never surprised. "The Khaled Kandil mission, that was you?" 

          "Yeah," Sam replies modestly, shrugging. 

          "I heard they couldn't bring in the choppers because of the RPGs," the ex-Russian super spy murmurs, half to herself half to the rest of us. "What did you use? A stealth chute?" 

          "No," the man says, leaning forward to grab the file. "One of these." He hands the file back to us, and my eyebrows raise in amazement. 

          "I thought you said you were a pilot," Steve finally says. 

          "I never said pilot," Sam says with a small grin. 

          "I can't ask you to do this, Sam," the supers oldies says sadly, brow furrowed and face reminiscent to that of a kicked puppy. "You got out for a good reason." 

          "Dude, Captain America needs my help," Sam says, smiling. "There's no better reason to get back in." Steve looks hesitant, but doesn't try to persuade Sam to leave.

          "Where can we get our hands on one of these things?" Natasha asks, tapping the file on the table. 

          "The last one is in Fort Meade," Sam admits with a grimace. "Behind three guarded gates and a twelve-inch steel wall." Natasha, Clint and I all exchange looks. 

          "Shouldn't be a problem," Clint says with a smirk.

~~~~~

          "Clint, get up on the roof with Cam," Steve intructs. Sam, you're the only one who SHIELD isn't looking for, so that means you're going to have to be the one who makes the call. Natasha and I will be waiting just inside the building for you when you get there. Clint, as soon as Sitwell is in the building, hide. Sitwell doesn't need to know that we have you." 

          "Oh, one more thing!" I say quickly before everyone can split up to go to their designated positions. "Sam, grab me something to eat, I'm starving." 

          "You had four plates of breakfast this morning," Steve says, confused. 

          "I absorbed an explosion, Cap, I'm tired and hungry and sore," I reply matter-of-factly. The super soldier sighs. 

          "Just get to your posts." 

          Clint salutes, theralding his arm through mine and dragging me off. Neither of us have any sort of rifle on us with which to shoot, but the particular building we'd be sniping from today, there was already a bundle of weapons packed there for us, courtesy of Natasha.

~~~~~

          The wait is agony, but eventually Jasper Sitwell emerges from some sort of hotel with another man and a few bodyguards. They chat for a while. Hug. Then the other man leaves. That's Sam's cue, and Clint readies the rifle. Natasha had hooked us all up with devices that were tapped into Sam's phone, which meant we could hear everything that happened.

          "Yes, sir?" Sitwell asks, voice stuff and professional. 

          "Agent Sitwell, how was lunch?" Sam asks. "I hear the crab cakes here are delicious." 

          "Who is this?" Sitwell demands, voice steely. 

          "The good-looking guy in the sunglasses, your 10 o'clock," Sam replies. The SHIELD agent turns in the opposite direction, and I sigh out loud. "Your other 10 o'clock," Sam corrects. Down in the plaza, I see Sam move and tip his drink towards Sitwell. "There you go." 

          "What do you want?" 

          "Your going to go around the corner to your right. There's a gray car two spaces down. You and I are going to take a ride." 

          "And why would I do that?" Clint goes eerily still next to me, rifle in hand, breathing steady, eyes focused.

          "Because that tie looks really expensive, and I'd hate to mess it up." Clint's finger twitches, turning on the red laser beam, aimed straight at Sitwell's tie. Keeps it on the SHIELD (or rather, Hydra) agent as he walks all the way down to Sam's car. Then he shuts it off and hands the rifle to me.

          "Where you planning on hiding?" I ask. Clint shrugs, putting his purple jacket on. 

          "I was thinking that you fly me over to the next building over with a gun and I cover you if anything goes wrong." I nod, slinging the rifle over one shoulder. 

          "This isn't like flying with Iron Man," I warn the archer. "Actually, I'm not sure if this is even going to work, because the last time I carried a passenger was three years ago, and that was a baby." Clint gives me a look. 

          "You're really not helping me here, Cam." I flap a hand vaguely, biting my lip. 

          "Hold on tight, don't let go no matter what and if you do that right I think we should be able to make it over in one piece." 

~~~~~

          Thankfully, one piece isn’t that much to ask for, and I land on top of the building that Steve is supposed to meet me on, just as Jasper Sitwell is thrown through the rooftop door. 

          “Tell me about Zola’s algorithm,” Steve demands. 

          “Never heard of it,” Sitwell replies quickly, backing towards the edge of the roof as the supersoldier advances at a fast pace. 

         “What were you doing on the Lemurian Star?” Steve presses, backing Sitwell towards the edge of the roof. Nat comes to stand beside me, arms crossed.

         “I was throwing up,” Sitwell says. “I get seasick.” The backs of his ankle hits the edge and he windmills his arms around as he tips backwards. Steve’s hands shoot out, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and yanking him back up. Natasha smirks, leaving to go stand just behind Steve.

         “Is this little display meant to insinuate that you’re going to throw me off the roof?” Sitwell asks. “Because it’s really not your style, Rogers.” A long pause, in which Steve’s face turns stone-cold and impassive.

         “You’re right,” the super soldier finally says, letting go of Sitwell and stepping back. “It’s not. It’s hers.” He steps aside, and Natasha lunges forward to plant a solid kick in the center of the Hydra agent’s chest, sending him tumbling over the side of the building with a scream.

         I saunter forwards, hands in my pockets and rifle slung over one shoulder.

         “Wait, what about that girl from Accounting?” Natasha says, snapping her fingers. “Laura… Laura—

         “Lillian,” Steve interjects. “Lip piercing, right?”

         “Yeah, she’s cute,” the redhead comments.

         “Yeah, I’m not ready for that,” the super soldier says. There’s a whoosh of engines and the sound of screaming grows nearer.

         Sam soars overhead, depositing Sitwell back on the roof, before looping around and sticking a landing, wings retracting into the jetpack on his back. Natasha, Steve and I all make our way over to Sitwell, who’s on his hands and knees.

         “Zola’s algorithm is a program for choosing Insight’s targets!” Sitwell says desperately, one hand held out as if to stop the three of us from getting any closer.

         “What targets?” Steve asks curtly.

         “You! A TV anchor in Cairo, the Under Secretary of Defense, a high school Valedictorian in Iowa City, Bruce Banner, Stephen Strange, anyone who’s a threat to Hydra! Now, or in the future.”

         “In the future?” I repeat, crouching down to look my former handler in the eyes. “How did it know?” Sitwell lets out a weak chuckle.

         “How could it not?” he counters. “The twenty-first century is a digital book. Zola taught Hydra how to read it. Back records, medical histories, voting patterns, emails, phone calls, your SAT scores. Zola’s algorithm evaluates peoples’ past to predict their future.”

         “And what then?” I ask quietly.

         “Oh my god, Pierce is going to kill me,” Sitwell mutters frantically.

         “What. Then.”

         “Then the Insight helicarriers scratch people off the list,” the Hydra agent says, words coming out in an almost-whine. “A few million at a time.”

         I let out a low growl, snagging Sitwell by the lapels and dragging him to his feet.

         “Who’s in on this?” I demand, shaking him. “Who’s making this all happen for Pierce?”

         “Cam, we got everything we came for,” Steve says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We need to leave.” I growl, but shove Sitwell back and push past Sam, who’s standing just behind him.

         “I’ll meet you at the car,” I say gruffly, kicking off into the air.

~~~~~

         “Hydra doesn’t like leaks,” Sitwell says, sitting in the back of Sam’s car, squished between Nat and me.

         “Then why don’t you stick a cork in it,” Sam snaps, eyes glued to the road.

         “Insight’s launching in sixteen hours, were cutting it a little bit close here,” Natasha adds, sticking her head up into the front.

         “I know,” Steve says flatly. “We’ll use Pierce to bypass the DNA scans and access the helicarriers directly.”

         “What?” Sitwell demands. “Are you crazy? That is a terrible, terrible idea.”

         He opens his mouth to say something else, but something slams onto the roof of the car, denting it. Everyone’s heads snap up just as something metal slams through the roof of the car and grabs Sitwell by the back of the suit, yanking him out of the car through the roof.

         His screams don’t last that long.

         Gunshots from whoever is on top of the roof, and Nat is a blur of motion as she lunges into the front seat to shove Steve to the side. Another gunshot, and I lunge forward to cover Sam.

         “Shit!” Sam yells. “Hang on!”

         He slams on the brakes, and I fly forwards, cracking my head on the windshield. The weight on the roof of the car goes flying off and lands in the middle of the road. Sparks fly, accompanying the sound of screeching metal as the Winter Soldier drags his metal hand across the asphalt.

         He climbs to his feet slowly, a deadly predator. Nat’s gun is out in the blink of an eye, but someone rear-ends the car, making her drop the gun. I swear as I’m thrown forwards once again, this time managing to catch myself before I can hit my head.

         Sam swears again as the car behinds us pushes us forwards, towards the Soldier in the middle of the road.

          _Flashes of snowy woods pass me by as I run, run, run. I don’t know where I’m going, but the Soldier is leading me there._

         There’s a blur of movement as the Soldier in the present leaps into the air, disappearing from sight. There’s a crash as he lands on the roof of the car once more. Sam floors the brakes once again, but it does nothing to slow us down. Nat’s hand is scrabbling around desperately, searching for her gun.

         I whip out my own, bracing my hands on the dashboard as I kick my legs up, body screaming in protest as my feet slam into the Winter Soldier through the hole in the roof.

         The car behind us rams us again, and I swear as I lose my balance, crashing to the side. A metal hand breaks through the windshield, tearing the steering wheel straight out of Sam’s hands.

         “Shit!” he yells, just as the weight on the roof disappears and the car lurches forwards, propelled by the one behind us. Another hit and the car runs up against the inner barrier. There’s a loud crash, and crane my neck to see Steve ramming his shield against the passenger side door. Nat has her gun.

         “Hurry up!” I yell, taking aim at the Jeep behind us, the Winter Soldier clinging to the front. I squeeze off a few shots before it surges forwards again, and when it rams us we go _flying._

          _Turning, turning, turning in midair. Weightless._

_“Спускайся, котеночек.” A soft voice. Female. Not MaMa._

_“Две минуты,” I plead. My feet are on solid ground once more._

_“Нам нужно уходить, котенок.”_

         “Hold on!” Steve yells as the car flips sideways. I’m still dazed as the full weight of Sam throwing himself against me sends me down, crushing Nat and Steve so that the passenger side door breaks off the hinges and crashes onto the street below, the car continuing to flip through the air without us.

          It seems like an eternity, but the car door stops sliding and Sam rolls off of me and I roll off of Nat who rolls off of Steve and we all stand up to look around warily.

         And the Winter Soldier has some sort of launcher and Steve is shoving Nat and me out of the way and then he’s flying, flying, flying through the air.

          _“Две минуты.”_

_“Нам нужно уходить, котенок.”_

         There’s crashing down below, but I don’t have time to worry about that because there are men with guns and they’re aiming at me so I fuck behind stopped cars, empty of their owners.

         I throw Nat my gun and yank my whip out from where it was disguised as belt and press my bracelet.

         The whole thing glows red before it detaches, and I shove it in my pocket, swapping the whip to my other hand, the one with a bracelet around the wrist. There should be an alert that pops up on Clint’s phone that tells him that I took the bracelet off, which means we need help.

         There’s a boom and a car goes flying over the railing. I take the opportunity to launch myself across the bridge and over the side, rolling and catching myself mid-drop, flying sideways under the bridge. Nat has landed safely below, guns in hand and pointed straight up. I hear a crack from up above, and return fire ceases.

         Taking the opportunity, I speed out from under the bridge, whip arcing out and catching one of the men at the edge of the bridge, yanking him over and releasing him as he topples to the ground below.

         My shoulders (well, more like my entire body) are aching from the exertion, but I double back to avoid gunfire as fast as possible.

         My eyes meet Nat’s, and her green ones are the closest thing to scared I have ever seen. I hold up my arm, letting her see the bare wrist. She nods, retreating further into a small cluster of stopped cars that had been stopped by an overturned bus in the middle of the road.

         More rapid-speed gunfire, probably from an automatic rifle. Natasha fires back. Tucking the handle of my whip under my armpit, I snap my goggles down over my face as gunfire from both sides ceases.

         Glass breaks as someone drops from the bridge above me, shattering the windshield with the force of the impact.

         Metal glints in the sun.

         The Winter Soldier.

         I hold my breath almost reflexively, reaching for my whip, and then the Soldier is doing a menacing model walk off of the car before he _stops_. There are more Hydra agents dropping from the bridge above and gunfire going off, but when the Soldier turns and locks eyes with me, it all goes away.

          _“Это солдат,” a rough male voice says. “С этого момента ты тренируешься с ним..”_

_I can feel myself nod stiffly, almost like a robot._

_“Позитивный.”_

_The scrape of boots against stone floor._

_“Обучение начинается сейчас.”_

         “Вы,” the Soldier in the present murmurs, barely loud enough for my enhanced hearing to pick it up.

         “Вы,” I murmur in reply. The leather of the whip handle cracks under my grip. Neither of us move for a second.

         And then the Soldier is bringing his weapon up to point at me and I’m shooting forwards, hand without the bracelet outstretched and we’re tumbling to the pavement.

         I’ve lost my grip on my whip, but I don’t particularly care as I lunge at the Soldier, hand gripping the metal of his arm. The thing whirs and clicks weakly, sputtering once or twice before going out. The sudden weight of the arm makes me grunt, but I don’t have much time to think about that because the Soldier is turning his entire body, and with it the arm and I’m flying through the air.

         The concrete knocks all the air out of me, but I roll a few times and slam my hands against the ground to stop, scrambling to my feet as the Soldier advances. There’s a knife in his real hand, the metal one twitching and sparking as it reanimates itself.

        I duck out of the way of the first swipe, then dive left after feinting right, coming up behind the Soldier and pushing. He’s off-balance for a millisecond, and I use that to bring one foot up and kick the knife out of his hand. In an unexpected burst of speed, the Soldier whips around and grabs my ankle in one hand, grip harsh and bruising.

          _“Снова!” the same rough voice commands. “Пока коротышка не сможет удержать себя!”_

         I snap out of yet another flashback as I’m thrown to the ground once again, shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. I groan, and there’s a _thwip_ before an arrow latches onto the Soldier’s metal arm, electricity coursing through it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I do not speak Russian and I am very, very sorry if I’ve screwed something up. Here’s the translations (in order)  
> Come down, little kitten  
> Two minutes  
> We need to go, kitten
> 
> This is the Soldier. From now on, you train with him  
> Affirmative  
> Training begins now
> 
> You
> 
> Again! Until the runt can hold her own!


	11. Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I feel like I'm running out of creative chapter names. Seriously, I named one 'Fuckity Fuck Fuck Fuck'. Ah, well. Getting to the juicy parts, so inspiration should be striking anytime now.  
> Hopefully.  
> Thanks for reading! :) Enjoy.

         I push myself to my feet immediately as the Soldier pauses for a moment, sprinting towards my whip, which is lying on the ground a few feet away. When I turn back around, the assassin has already yanked the arrow off of his arm, looking around for the source.

         Another _thwip_ , and an arrow embeds itself in the road at the Soldier’s feet. For a split second it just sits there, quivering from the impact—and then it explodes, putty glueing the Soldier in place. I dart forwards, cracking my whip as I swing it around at the Soldier’s head.

         But he still has full use of his upper torso, and he ducks under my first attack, wrenching his feet from the ground as he does. I yank the whip back, cracking it again to deactivate it before stowing it inside my jacket, where there’s a special pocket for the whip.

         The Soldier is advancing once again, arm whirring into full working order. But before either of us can make a move, the sound of sirens splits the air.

         I wince at the sudden shrill noises, and the Soldier’s head snaps around. Then he’s sprinting away, disappearing into the maze of cars. I swear, rubbing my temples.

         The gunfire has died down, which I take to mean that one of the others have taken care of the Hydra agents. All’s quiet on the bridge, so I figure that Sam has himself handled too.

         The sirens draw nearer, my head snapping up so fast I almost give myself whiplash.

         And then an explosion cuts the shrill noise off.

         I duck behind a nearby car on instinct, hands sheltering my head. When no impact comes, I poke my head around the bumper cautiously. There’s no one there, and so I edge out from behind the car.

         The soft clicking of a gun being reloaded makes me tense up, hand going to where my second gun is concealed at the small of my back.

         Soft footsteps. I whip around instantly, handgun coming up to aim at whoever had snuck up on me.

         Nat.

         The redhead holds up a finger, pressing it to her mouth, and I nod. Gesture upwards, then mime nocking and drawing a bow and arrow. Nat nods, gesturing to my left and beckoning for me to follow.

         The two of us wind around cars until we can see a head of long brown hair. Natasha points at me, then gestures left, pointing to herself and gesturing up. I nod, creeping around the side of the car.

         The Soldier kneels for a brief second, and something rolls away under the cars. He takes careful aim.

         A beat of silence.

         _BOOM_.

        Natasha pounces with the explosion, leaping onto the hood of the car and landing on the Winter Soldier’s shoulders. I slip my whip out with the hand attached to the wrist with no bracelet, lunging forwards and whipping it around to snare the Soldier’s feet.

        The wire catches around hi# feet, the other end coming back to me, which I grip in my other hand, pulling hard. The Soldier stumbles back into a car. Natasha’s legs are wrapped firmly around his neck, and she squeezes tighter as I adjust my grip on both ends of the whip. Before I can pull, though, the Soldier kicks one leg out with inhuman strength, whipping the end of the whip out of my hands while my grip is still loose.

         The force leaves a stinging mark across my palm, but the pain is an afterthought as I watch the Soldier brace his feet and throw Natasha from his shoulders. I wince in sympathy as she slams into a car, falling to the ground. I hurry forwards as the Soldier grabs his fallen gun, lunging into the air and slamming into his metal arm with my left side, the one without a bracelet.

         The arm whirs and dies once again, and I drop to the ground as Nat makes her escape, rolling out of the way of a blow from the Soldier’s real arm. Jumping to my feet, I make a pass at my whip, but then he’s in front of me and I’m ducking under a punch.

          _“Снова!” a rough male voice commands harshly. I drag myself up from the cold stone floor, entire body screaming in protest. The Soldier stands on the other side of the room, face like stone, eyes hard._

_“Дайте ей немного отдохнуть, коммандер. Тема 009 только начинает изучаться.” Cold. Expressionless. Female. But… not MaMa. Not the other woman either. I’m not sure who it is, and none of the other flashes of memories-that-aren’t-quite-memories give me clues on who it could be._

_“Помните, доктор, это может быть ваш эксперимент, но я решаю, подходит ли она для задач, которые мы запланировали для нее.”_

         I’m shaken out of the memory flash (because even if I’m just remembering now, they seem familiar in a way that could only come from experiencing it firsthand) by the Soldier sending me flying into a car, knocking the wind out of me,

         And his freezing cold eyes are staring into mine and all I can think of are flashes, bits and pieces of broken memories that I don’t remember having, of times that I’ve stared into these very same eyes. Something flickers behind them in the present day. Something that I never remembered seeing.

         It’s gone as quick as it came, and the Soldier turns and walks away, grabbing his gun as he does.

         I groan, turning over on my side, before approaching footsteps make my head snap up.

         Clint.

         “He’s heading towards Nat,” the blonde says without stopping, running past me. I swear, pushing myself to my feet with gritted teeth, hurrying after the archer once I’ve retrieved my whip.

         There are people running towards us, so we push against them. Screams as gunshots are heard. Clint and I only run faster.

         And then we’re there and Steve is too and there are sparks flying as a metal fist collides with an unbreakable shield.

         Clint has an arrow nocked and drawn in the space of a second, and I swap my whip to my right hand, the one with a bracelet, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

         The Soldier’s leg comes up and knocks the shield away, before slamming into Steve’s chest and sending him flying. The Captain tucks and rolls, landing with his shield held out in front of him. Clint looses the arrow just as the Soldier opens fire on the other blonde.

         There’s only a few shots before the arrow latches onto the Soldier’s metal arm, electrocuting it immediately. The dark-haired man is forced to drop the gun, rolling over the other side of the car he’s on top of, sitting after having fallen back to absorb the impact of his kick that sent Steve flying.

         Clint and the supersoldier exchange looks, some sort of unspoken communication passing between them.

         And then Steve is charging forwards, leaping over the hood of the car that the Soldier is hidden behind as a metal hand snatches the gun off of the roof of the car.

         The two of them are too close to get a clear shot in, so Clint stands at the ready with another arrow nocked and ready to draw. I’m tense, bouncing the balls of my feet, waiting for an opening that won’t endanger our supersoldier.

         In a move much too fast for my brain to register, Steve is flipping as the Winter Soldier twists his shield, falling back without it. The Soldier stares him down, blue eyes peering over the top of the shield. When the blonde charges, he throws the shield so hard that, when Steve dodges it, it embeds itself in the side of a truck.

         There’s a brief, split-second pause in between the time that the Soldier throws the shield and Steve reaches him.

         Clint takes that opening, loosing two arrows in rapid succession.

         The first one hits the ground at the brunette’s feet, exploding with putty.

         The second one takes out the knife that the Soldier was taking out, narrowly missing his hand.

         I swear softly, eyes darting around frantically as the two supersoldiers engage in a fast series of blocks and jabs. There’s a cracking sound when the Soldier pulls his feet free of the putty.

         “Where’s Nat?” I mutter. Clint’s head snaps towards me, hearing aids having been fine-tuned to pick up softer sounds if there’s not too much background noise.

         “The gunshots?” he asks. I nod grimly. The blonde’s jaw twitches, glancing over when the sound of Steve hitting the roof of a car reaches his ears. “You stay. I’ll find her.” I salute him with two fingers, hurrying in the opposite direction of my partner after stowing my whip.

         There’s a loud shriek as I round the corner of the truck that Steve had been thrown over, the source of which was another knife of the Soldier’s being scraped across the aforementioned truck. Steve ducks, and I leap into the air, coming down almost immediately with one foot outstretched.

         The kick collides with the Soldier’s metal hand, and I grit my teeth as the force of the impact reverberates throughout my entire body. After a beat of hesitance, I use the residual momentum to throw my body forwards, bending in half to grab the Soldier’s wrist and wrench my ankle free of his grasp. I twist as the ground comes up to meet me, hitting it in a roll with my right shoulder.

         I bounce back up instantly, pivoting just as Steve throws the Winter Soldier over in a flip, the brunette hitting the ground and rolling, leaving his lower face mask behind.

         Leaving his face exposed.

          _“Солдат-опасный человек,” the same soft voice from before says. The female one, the one who wanted me to come down from whatever surface I was running about on. “Доктор зола может думать, что мы держим его под контролем, но я видел его дух.” My eyes dart over to the woman, and I realize that she has soft green eyes. Black hair. Caramel skin. About twenty, maybe older. She shakes her head, finishing wrapping a bandage around my arm. “Джеймс Барнс не пройдет легко.”_

         “Bucky?” Steve whispers. My hand has subconsciously drifted up to the exact same spot as where my injury had been in the not-quite-memory, the phantom pressure of a bandage long gone lingering on my skin.

         “Who the hell is Bucky?” the Winter Soldier asks.

         A beat of absolute quiet.

         James Buchanan Barnes’ (but not quite, because this man is no longer James Buchanan Barnes) metal hand glints in the sun as he raises a gun to shoot, but then Sam is swooping out of nowhere in his flying suit, knocking him to the ground. He stumbles to a landing beside me as the Soldier rolls to his feet.

         There’s a moment in which I think that he’s going to attack, but then something big goes whipping by me and makes a car explode. Steve, Sam and I all turn around to see Clint lowering his bow, Natasha propped up against the car beside him.

         When we all look back, the Winter Soldier is gone.

~~~~~~

Translations for the Russian all in order. Routine disclaimer: I do not speak Russian.

_ Again! _

_ Give her a short rest, commander. Subject 009 is just beginning to learn. _

_ Remember, doctor, this may be your experiment, but I decide whether or not she is fit for the tasks we have planned for her. _

_The Soldier is a dangerous man._

_Doctor Zola may think that we have him under control, but I have seen that man’s spirit._

_James Barnes will not go easily._

~~~~~~

         Sirens. Coming from all directions.

         Black vans. The source of the sirens.

         STRIKE teams. Pouring out of the black vans.

         STRIKE teams. Most of them probably Hydra.

         “Drop the shield, Cap!” Rumlow shouts, gun pointed at the very center of Steve’s chest. “Get on your knees!” He advances forwards. “Get on your knees!” I raise my hands above my head warily, eyes narrowed at the approaching people.

         “Knees, Hinojosa!” a woman barks. I vaguely recognize her from Rumlow’s team, the one night on the Lemurian Star. I grit my teeth, lowering myself to my knees.

         Now that I’m not fighting one of the world’s deadliest assassins, my body is finally registering all of the pain. I hiss quietly as another STRIKE member comes up behind me, yanking my hands back and forcing cold silver cuffs onto my wrists.

         “Check her wrists,” the woman commands, closer now. “Stark rigged her up with some fancy new power suppressors. Some sort of bracelet.” Hands dig into my jeans pockets, and I automatically swivel on my knees, rolling back so that my legs can come up to knee my assailant’s arms away before shooting out to kick them in the center of the torso. The man lets out an “oomph” as he stumbles back, and I bare my teeth at him in a snarl.

         “For the love of—“

         The woman behind me presses her gun into the small of my back, and I freeze up immediately as she searches through my pockets, finally withdrawing the other bracelet at the bottom of my inside jacket pocket. She keeps the cold metal of the gun muzzle pinned to my back as she clasps the bracelet around my left wrist with one hand, and when she steps back I know that it’s trained on me, her finger on the trigger and safety off.

         There’s a helicopter somewhere, I realize dully. Don’t dwell on it, because there are flashes of _cold blue eyes staring me down from where I’m pinned on the floor, metal arm resting on my neck, flashes of a red star as I weave around the man, snippets of barked Russian commands, telling me to be_ faster _,_ stronger _,_ better. _Worthy of investment._

         “Load ‘em up!” someone calls, and then I’m being dragged to my feet by a man, this one who I recognize. Jack Rollins, Rumlow’s second in command. Probably also Hydra. They slap some heavy-duty cuffs on me, and I’m not even sure if you can actually call them cuffs because you basically stack my arms on top of each other and close the whole thing around them. I swallow, finding my voice as I stumble over to a van. Two STRIKE members are already opening the back.

         “Not exactly a limousine,” I comment as Rollins shoves me in. Steve, Nat, Sam and Clint are already there, watched by three other SHIELD agents. “I would’ve thought that Captain America warranted cushioned seats at the very least.” Rollins slams the doors shut, plunging the back into semi-darkness. Someone knocks on the side of the van twice, and then the ground lurches underneath me.

         “Shit,” I mutter. A STRIKE agent grips me by the back of the jacket, yanking me upright and pushing me onto one of the benches beside Steve. The supersoldier is staring down at his feet, blue eyes lost and almost scared.

         “It was him,” he says. “He looked right at me. But he didn’t even know me.”

         “How’s that even possible?” Sam asks, seated across from me. “That was, like, seventy years ago.”

         “Zola,” I say, tucking my legs up underneath me. “I… I dunno, but—“

          _My hand shakes as I lift the knife. The girl (she’d wanted to be my friend, and I’d wanted so desperately to be hers) looks up at me with wide, frightened eyes._

“Cam?” My eyes snap open, and I don’t even remember closing them. Clint looks at me worriedly.

         “Zola,” Steve mutters, still lost in thought. “Bucky’s whole unit was captured in ‘43. Zola experimented on him. Whatever he did helped Bucky survive the fall.” He’s looking up now, at Sam. My head is pounding, and I blink away the spots in my vision. “They must have found him and…”

         “None of that’s your fault, Steve,” Clint says quietly. Natasha makes a small noise of concurrence from where she’s leaning against him.

         “Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.”

         Natasha’s head lolls back, and her red hair shifts to reveal a slowly spreading dark red patch on her jacket. Sam follows my line of vision, twisting his neck to do so. He quickly turns to one of the STRIKE agents.

         “We need to get a Doctor here. If we don’t put pressure on that wound, she’s gonna bleed out here in the truck.” The STRIKE agent he’s talking to raises their cattle prod menacingly, but Sam holds his ground, unflinching. A beat of silence. Then the agent lashes out to the side with the prod, jabbing their teammate in the stomach. They let out a cry of surprise as they crash to the floor.

         “Ah,” Maria Hill says, taking off her helmet. “That thing was squeezing my brain.” She glances at Sam, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Who’s this guy?”

         “Maria, meet Sam,” Clint introduces quickly. “Sam, Maria. Can we please leave?”

         Nick Fury’s right hand woman grins, pulling another rod from her belt.

         “Thought you’d never ask.”

 


	12. I Don’t Know What to Name This Chaoter, So This is the Title I’m Putting Up Until I Can Think of One

         Maria hijacks another van, which she drives out into the woods. Natasha sways with each turn of the van, and Clint and I do our best to jam her in between us so that she won’t jostle as much. The bullet wound is leaking a steady stream of blood, and the red patch is getting a little too large for comfort. I shrug off my jacket and shirt at one point, giving her my tank top to press against the wound. Sam had looked away, and I’d seen Steve’s cherry-red cheeks in the rear view mirror.

         It seems like hours have passed by the time the van pulls to a stop in the middle of nowhere, but the sly outside tells me that it’s still midday. Steve and Maria take the lead, hopping out of the front seats first, so that the blonde can help Clint and I lower Natasha down to the ground. 

         The place we’d been taken to is some sort of massive bunker that isn’t beneath the ground. Maria opens a gate in the side of a huge cement-brick wall, hurrying ahead of us. Lights line the wide corridor before us, and I can see a few people who might be SHIELD agents milling around. 

         “GSW,” Maria calls. “She’s lost at least a pint.” A man in glasses hurries over, raising an arm as he advances. 

         “Let me take her!”

         “She’ll want to see him first,” Maria says grimly. My jaw twitches, hands subconsciously clenching into fists at my sides. The pronoun game, where all I’d get was “he” and “him” and “his” until they saw fit to reveal anything to me. Compartmentalizing.

         Maria leads us over to where semi-opaque strips of plastic hang from a low ceiling, like the kind over the freezer section in Costco. Clint and I have to maneuver around both Steve and Natasha to see, because both of them have stopped dead in the tracks. I do too when I see Nick Fury lying in a hospital bed, very much alive and turning his head to face us. 

         Clint’s nails are digging into my skin, and my own hands are clenching so hard that I’m getting sharp pains from my own short nails. 

         And then the director of SHIELD has the nerve to look me straight in the eye.

         “About damn time.”

~~~~~

         Maira had called the doctor in and pulled up a chair for Natasha to sit in while he patched up her bullet wound. Meanwhile, Fury explained himself.

         “Lacerated spinal column, cracked sternum, shattered collarbone, perforated liver and one hell of a headache,” the director of SHIELD says.

         “Don’t forget your collapsed lung,” the doctor adds. 

         “Let’s not forget that,” Fury replies dryly. “Otherwise, I’m good.”

         “They cut you open, your heart stopped,” Natasha says, fishing for answers. It’s the least Fury can give us after everything that’s happened in the past days.

         “Tetrodotoxin B,” Nick says. “Slows the pulse to one beat a minute. Banner developed it for stress. Didn’t work so great for him, but we found a use for it.”

         “Why all the secrecy?” Steve asks, not even waiting for the last of the words to leave Nick’s mouth. “Why not just tell us?”

         “Any attempt on the director’s life had to look successful,” Maria explains.

         “Can’t kill you if you’re already dead,” Nick agrees. “Besides, I wasn’t sure who to trust.” Clint’s jaw twitches, and I know what he’s thinking about. Loki. Mind control.  _ Phil _ .

         I consider punching Fury, but decide against it. We need more answers, and if anyone has them, it’s going to be him. 

         “Why don’t you guys take ten to wash up,” Maria says, shifting to face us. “You can meet us in the office. I’ll have someone show you there.”

~~~~~

         I rest my head against the wall, breathing slowly. Carefully, so as to not invite a panic attack. Squeezing my eyes shut, all I can see is that woman. Black hair. Skin the color of caramel. Green eyes, like a forest that you could get lost in. 

         I don’t know who she is. Don’t know how she could possibly be related to me, or whoever those memories belonged to. But out of all the flashes— _ visions _ that I’ve been getting, she’s the one I’m hooked on. Fixated. Focused.

         There’s a sharp rap on the door. 

         “Cam?” Natasha.

         “Ten seconds,” I reply. My voice is hoarse.

~~~~~

         “This man declined the Nobel Peace Prize,” Nick says. He’s holding a picture of Alexander Pierce at some sort of board meeting, left arm in a sling. “He said peace wasn’t an achievement, it was a responsibility.” He throws the picture down on the desk in front of him. “See, it’s stuff like this that gives me trust issues.”

         “We have to stop the launch,” Natasha says. She’s sitting to my right, Steve standing off-center in front of me, Clint pounding against the wall a little ways off. 

         “I don’t think the Council’s accepting my calls anymore,” Nick says, leaning forwards and using his good hand to open up a black case. Inside are what looks Like three computer chips. Inconspicuous, about the size of four quarters. Small enough to slip into a pocket, easily missed.

         “What’s that?” Sam asks, moving forwards a bit from Steve’s right. Maria clicks a few things on her own computer, turning it around to face us. 

         “Once the helicarriers reach 3,000 feet they’ll triangulate with Insight satellites, becoming fully weaponized,” she explains. The diagram on the screen shows the Insight helicarriers in a formation surrounding a dot in the middle, dotted lines connecting them to each other. 

         “We need to breach those carrier and replace their targeting blades with our own,” Nick continues. The diagram moves, zooming in on a helicarriers and directing us to the belly of the airship, where it shows a chip identical to the ones in the box being inserted alongside others. 

         “One or two won’t cut it,” Maria says. “We need to link all three carriers for this to work, because if even one of those ships remains operational, a whole lot of people are gonna die.”

         “We have to assume everyone aboard those carriers is Hydra. We have to get past them, insert these server blades. And maybe, just maybe, we can salvage what’s left.”

         “We’re not salvaging anything,” Steve says sharply. Nick looks up in surprise. “Were not just taking down the carriers, Nick, were taking down SHIELD.” 

         “SHIELD has nothing to do with this,” Nick says indignantly. 

         “You have us this mission,” Steve says, jabbing a finger towards the floor. “This is how it ends. SHIELD’s been compromised. You said so yourself. Hydra grew right under your nose and nobody noticed.”

         “Why do you think we’re meeting in this cave?” Nick snaps back. “I noticed.” 

         “How many paid the price before any of you did?”

         The other man glances warily at Maria, shaking his head slightly. 

         “Look, I didn’t know about Barnes.” 

         “Even if you had, would you have told me?” Steve counters. “Or would you have compartmentalized that too? SHIELD. Hydra. It all goes.”

         “He’s right,” Maria finally says quietly. Fury turns to his second in command, shock flickering through his one eye. Maria says nothing more.

         He looks to Natasha, who leans back in her chair. Clint, who shrugs and scratches at his ear. Me.

         “Hey, SHIELD and Hydra have both done shit to me,” I say, shrugging. “I think it’s best if everything’s just gone.” Nick says nothing, swapping over to Sam. 

         “Hey, don’t look at me. I do what he does, just slower.” Everyone looks at Nick, holding their breath. He huffs quietly. 

         “Well…” He sits back in his own chair, shaking his head a bit. “It looks like you’re giving the orders here, Captain.” 

~~~~~

         Less than ten hours until Insight launches and I’m just sitting around doing  _ nothing _ . 

         There’s a small bundle of clothes next to me. Maria had managed to smuggle my suit out. 

         I don’t want to put it on, because no matter what I’d said back in the bunker, I’m not quite ready for SHIELD to just… disappear. Sure, they’d poked and prodded and asked and experimented, but nothing past what I was okay with.

         Mostly.

         But I have good memories too. Of Clint. Nat. Bobby, when Clint and her were dating. Ghost, too, occasionally. And Phil. Phil who died to save the world. Phil who Clint still blames himself for. Phil who was Strike Team Delta’s rock. 

         I close my eyes, tipping my head forwards to rest on my knees that are halfway drawn up towards my chest. I’m so tired. 

         Maybe with SHIELD gone I’ll finally be able to  _ rest _ .

~~~~~

         Natasha heads out before the rest of us to take her place. Maria, Sam, Steve, Clint and I head over to the Smithsonian and break in to steal the supersoldier’s old uniform from way back in ‘43. 

_ “Я знал кое-кого однажды.” The voice is rough and raspy from screaming itself hoarse. “Он носил Красное, Белое и синее.” A snort. “Настоящий панк. Думал, что сможет спасти мир.” _

         “We clear on the plan?” Maria asks, passing out earpieces. Clint nods, fiddling with one hearing aid in order to tune into the channel we’d be using. 

~~~~~

_ I knew someone once. He wore red, white and blue.  _

_ Thought he could save the world. _

~~~~~

         We go in through the roof. There’s a tech back in the bunker hacking their ass off to get us through unseen, and I send them a silent thanks as I hear the click of a lock on the other side of the door that leads into the building. Sam and Maria both flick the safety on their guns off, pointing them at the poor guy who’d come out to check the dish.

         “Excuse us,” Steve says, tone light and pleasant but Captain America outfit saying otherwise. The man’s hands fly into the air like he couldn’t get them there fast enough, adam’s apple bobbing. I head forwards, and he quickly clears out of the way to allow us through. 

         The other techs in the room are quickly cleaned out, and Maria takes one of their seats as Sam heads over to the window, Clint to the door. A few clicks of the keyboard, and Maria pushes herself away from the desk. 

         “All yours, Cap.” Steve nods, bending over to speak into the microphone. 

         “Attention all SHIELD agents. This is Steve Rogers.” He takes a deep breath. ‘You’ve heard a lot about me over the last few days. Some of you were even ordered to hunt me down. But I think it’s time you know the truth.” A pause. Clint and I glance at each other, because after this there’s no going back. No way to reverse the damage that we’re about to inflict. 

          “SHIELD is not what we thought it was,” Steve says. “It’s been taken over by Hydra. Alexander Pierce is their leader. The STRIKE and Insight crew are Hydra as well. I don’t know how many more, but I know they’re in the building. They could be standing right next to you. They almost have what they want. Absolute control.” Another deep breath. “They shot Nick Fury. And it won’t end there. If you launch those helicarriers today, Hydra will be able to kill anyone that stands in their way.” Maria’s gaze is unwavering, fixed on the blonde. 

         “Unless we stop them. I know I’m asking a lot. But the price of freedom is high. It always has been. And it’s a price we’re willing to pay. And if I’m the only one, then so be it. But I’m willing to bet I’m not.” Movement from behind, and Steve pulls away from the microphone to face a smirking Sam. 

         “Did you write that down? Or was it off the top of your head?” Steve grins, flipping his shield to show Sam the back, where a pink sticky note is pasted to the inside. Pierce. Insight. Helicarriers. Stop Hydra.

         Sam laughs.

         “If we did this right, we should get going,” Clint says from the door. “Hydra is going to head up here the second they pinpoint the location.” Sam nods grimly, making for the door the archer stands beside. 

         “Let’s do this.”

~~~~~

         By the time Clint, Sam, Steve and I all make it out of the building, the ground begins to rumble.

         “Maria?” I yell, hopping off the ground and zipping ahead. “Please tell me that that is a good rumble.”

         “They’re initiating launch,” the agent says grimly. 

         “Fuck,” I mutter, looping back around to the others. 

         “Hey, Cap?” Sam tells. “How do we know the good guys from the bad guys?”

         “If they’re shooting at you, they’re bad.” Sam spreads his arms with a grin, the wings on his jetpack unfolding and lifting him up into the air as the four of us near a drop. Steve and Clint keep on going. 

         “Hey, Cam!” Clint yells, nocking an arrow as the drop nears. “Catch!” He leaps off, firing an arrow directly at me, cord trailing from the end. I dive forwards, snatching the arrow in midair, heaving up with all my strength. Steve hits the ground far below, and I tilt down, going forwards as I descend. The ground grows closer until I deem it safe enough.

         “Roll!” I yell, stopping abruptly and swinging the cord around. Clint goes flying past me, suspended midair by the cord, before he lets go and sails towards the ground, tucking and rolling before coming up running. 

         “Where’d you two learn how to do that?” Steve asks, somewhere behind us. There’s a background noise of a helicarriers taking off, and I can see it rising out of the ground beside us.

         “Being a circus brat has its benefits,” Clint replies, legs pumping at full speed. 

         The three of us near an area filled with crates just as a STRIKE team emerges from the building. Clint dives behind a crate, and I drop from the air, following my partner. Steve rolls over a few crates, hiding behind his shield, but that’s all I have time to keep track of before a STRIKE agent rounds the corner ahead. Clint jumps out of the way, letting him come to me in order to take care of another few.

         My foot snaps up, knocking the gun from the agent’s hands before I press the offense, landing blows to the stomach and torso area. Ducking out of the way of a punch, I place both hands behind me and sweep my legs around to cut the other’s out from under him. He tumbled to the pavement with a surprised noise, and I give him a swift kick to the head.

         Another agent is already in his place, catching me with a blow that collides with my shoulder. I swear, backing away a few steps and sliding out of the way of another attack. I throw one arm out, slamming it against the crate behind me, and the wrist reaper slides out with a satisfactory  _ whoosh _ . I don’t hesitate before I thrust the arm out, blade sliding between my opponents ribs neatly. 

         An explosion from nearby, and I swear once again, ducking behind another crate. A few more explosions, but these are much more distant. 

         “Hey, Cap, I think I found those bad guys you were talking about,” Sam says.

         “You okay?” Steve asks. 

         “I’m not dead yet.”

         “Well, we will be if we don’t hurry the fuck up!” Clint calls, loosing an arrow. It explodes in a wave of heat, taking care of the rest of the Hydra agents.

         “Clint and I have Charlie, you take Alpha!” I yell, heading up into the air. “Clint!” An arrow whistles up past me, and I grab it, yanking up as hard as I can. “Sam, status?” 

         “Engaging!” 

         The cord jerks in my hands, retracting so that Clint is closer to me.

         “Eight minutes, Cap.” 

         “Working on it!” The helicarriers canons swivel to lock onto Clint and me. I swear softly.

         “I swear, Barton, if you let go I will kick your ghostly ass.” The first one fires and I swerve wildly.

         “Alpha lock,” Steve says. 

         “Falcon, where are you now?” Maria demands. 

         “I had to take a detour!” 

         “Shit, shit,  _ shit _ !” I yell, yanking Clint up so that he doesn’t get hit by another shot from the cannon. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” There. Slamming the breaks on my flight, I twist my upper body away from the helicarrier, bringing my arms back and then forwards in a loop. Clint, attached to the cord in my hands, foies forwards, disappearing topside onto the helicarrier. 

         “We’re on!” I yell, swerving away from more gunfire. Tucking my arms in tight, I zip up topside and roll out of the sky, coming up on the helicarrier running. “Whoop whoop, bitch!” Gunfire, this time from Hydra agents aboard the helicarrier. 

         “Oh, yeah,” Sam says in my ear. “I’m in. Bravo lock!”

         “Two down, one to go,” Maria says. “Why don’t you two go and help the others out. Charlie carrier is 45 degrees off port bow.”

         “Affirmative,” Steve says. A grunt. A few explosions. Clint looses an arrow the ensuing explosion taking out the remaining Hydra agents. “Hey, Sam, I’m gonna need a ride.”

         “Roger. Let me know when you’re ready.” Clint and I break into a mad sprint towards the door that leads into the carrier.

         “I just did!” I ran the door with my shoulder, taking it off its hinges and sending it crashing into the small group of Hydra agents who had been coming up above deck to try and stop us. 

         “You know, you’re a lot heavier than you look,” Sam says.

         “I had a big breakfast.”

         Gunfire, but it doesn’t come from anywhere in front of me. It’s from behind. Clint ducks and rolls, and I press myself against the wall around the corner. I try and peer around the bend, but more gunfire forces me back. Clint is across the corridor, in another room, bow in hand. 

         “It’s him,” he hisses. “I’ll stay here and cover your ass, just get the chip into the goddamn targeting system.” I hesitate. “Go!”

         “Don’t fucking die, you hear me?” Clint grins as I sprint down the hallway. 


	13. I Don’t Have a Title For This Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that my publishing schedule is irregular as fuck, and I don’t actually have an excuse other than motivational issues. Hope this chapter turned out well, and feedback is always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

         The belly of the carrier is big, catwalks stretching out on all four sides of where the targeting systems are located. I hurry across one of them, glancing over the side as a I do. A low whistle escapes me, because even I can take the time to appreciate the view, because the bottom down below is made of glass and _wow_ , D.C looks amazing from above.

         Looking back ahead, I slip my hand into one of the inside pockets, withdrawing the chip and looking over my shoulder warily. No sounds of a fight yet, but that’s not necessarily a good thing.

         Every step I take is long (or as long as my shorter legs can manage. Everyone else on the team is taller than my measly 5’3”) and hurried. I don’t know how much time until they catch up.

         I’m almost at the control panel when the catwalk creaks with extra weight. Freezing, I turn around slowly, slipping the chip back into the inside pocket.

         The Winter Soldier stares back, expression blank as ever. He’s too far away for me to see his eyes, but I think I know what I’ll find there. The last shreds of a man who once was begging for help that I can’t provide.

         “Any hope of you forgetting that you want to kill me?” I ask, swallowing my fear. No answer, just the feeling that the glare is being dialed up to about a 10.5. “I’ll take that as a no.”

         There’s no warning, no subtle indication before the Winter Soldier _lunges_ , like a viper, fast and deadly and dangerous. He’s halfway across the catwalk before I even manage to swing my whip around, and by the time it strikes it makes contact with empty air.

         “Cam, you have less than five minutes,” Maria says.

         “Not now!” I help, yanking the unelectrified cord back and ducking under a punch aimed for the head, aiming a hit of my own at the sternum. It’s blocked by the Soldier’s flesh hand, and I know better than to let him get a good hold on me, because I’ve trained with Steve and super strength, no matter how much of a match for it I was, was a no no. Bracing my feet, I lean back and yank my yank my hand out of the Soldier’s grip, using the momentum to twist around and collect the rest of my whip for another strike.

         Gathering it in a short coil, I back up to maintain distance between the Soldier and me as he advances. When we round the bend of the targeting panel, I strike while he can’t immediately see what I’m doing. The whip hits him center mass, the force of the blow making him stumble back in surprise.

         He recovers quickly, though, charging forward and grabbing my wrist with his metal hand before I can dance away, twisting it in order to make me drop the whip. He kicks it away, and it falls to the glass floor below. His grip is tightening, and I scream in pain. Yanking my hand up with all my strength, I wrench it out of his grasp at the cost of scraping entire patches of skin off of my wrist.

         I hiss at the sting, but quickly vault over the side of the railing and fly out between the curved wall and the targeting control panel. The Soldier’s eyes narrow, and he reaches for something on his belt, bringing it up almost faster than I can register.

         Something shoots out of his hand, flying directly at me, and I move out of the way and catch it on instinct. It’s a grappling hook, but built more like my whip. Small, compact, sturdy.

         A pull on the other end nearly has me tumbling through the air back towards the control panel, but I manage to reverse my flight pattern and remain at a safe distance. The Soldier grits his teeth, putting more of his weight into pulling me back. I resist as much as I can, leaning back myself and pulling as hard as I can. And when the cord is taught and creaking dangerously, I let go.

         The force of which the hook leaves my hand leaves another welt on my palm, identical to the one from earlier, but I count myself lucky that the grapple didn’t catch me on its way back.

         All the weight that the Soldier had been putting into pulling me back suddenly has nothing to balance it, and he crashes to the ground just as the door to the control room slams open to reveal Steve, shield held up defensively, probably from ramming the door that I hadn’t noticed the Soldier lock behind him.

         I loop around to hover at the side of the catwalk as Steve moves forwards, landing quietly behind him once there’s enough room. My whip is still down on the floor below, but I don’t want to turn my back on the Winter Soldier of all people, much less give him a higher vantage point so that he could shoot me in the back.

         The Soldier has already collected himself, standing dead center in the middle of the catwalk and barring the way to the control panel. I can’t see Steve’s expression from behind him, but I can almost feel the sheer amount of sadness pouring off of the blonde in waves.

         “Three minutes, you two.” Maria’s voice is strained and worried, something that I’ve almost never heard her sound like and it’s serious, but all I can think of is Steve and the person who was Bucky.

         “People are going to die, Buck,” Steve says. “I can’t let that happen.” The tension in the air is thick, and I feel like I’m intruding on something that isn’t meant for me. That my presence takes away the sheer impact of this moment. But Steve needs someone to watch his back, especially if he’s fighting against someone who used to be a childhood friend.

         “Please don’t make me do this.”

         And he sounds so _broken_ , because I know that he doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to fight against a man who was once his brother.

         There’s no response, which leaves Steve with one option.

         He throws the shield.

         Sparks fly when the vibration collides with whatever the Soldier’s arm is made of, and I quickly launch off the catwalk as Steve advances, catching his shield just as the Soldier aims a few shots at him.

         The Soldier turns to me, managing to squeeze off one shot that I manage to avoid before Steve rams into his side. A few more gunshots, and Steve lets out a grunt of pain as the Soldier shoves him away, turning to face me from where I’ve landed on the other side of the catwalk. He raises the gun, but before he can shoot, the other supersoldier’s shield comes down, knocking it from his hand.

         The assassin whirls, palming a knife and jabbing at the blonde with it as I quickly dial in the code to access the targeting blades. Something slams into the catwalk a few feet away, and I have to duck to avoid a metal fist to the face. Steve is there soon after, yanking the Soldier away and herding him backwards. The targeting blades slide out, and I quickly grab one, throwing it to one side and reaching for the replacement, nestled in the inside pocket of my suit.

         This time I don’t anticipate the blow that sends me flying back, slamming into the rails of the catwalks. The Soldier’s metal hand heads for my neck, and I barely manage to move before it makes it to me. And then Steve is ramming into the Soldier, sending all three of us tipping over the side of the catwalk and down to some sort of platform just below the targeting blade control panel.

         The impact knocks all the wind out of me, and before I can recover the Soldier has flung Steve off of him and whipped out a knife, which plunged down towards my head. I roll away, sitting up and scrambling away from the advancing Soldier like a pathetic crab, until I’ve run out of platform and swap over to air. Steve lunges, shieldless, and the Soldier catches him by the throat.

         I scramble to my feet, propelling myself directly into his back, making him drop the blonde. Dropping back down to the platform and pressing myself against it in order to avoid the punch that the Soldier throws. Twisting my body so that my hands can grab the edge of the platform, I let the rest of my body follow my hands and swing myself under the platform, shooting out on the other side.

         “One minute, Cam,” Maria says in my ear, voice urgent.

         “I know, I know,” I snap, taking the chip out quickly. The first time I try and slot it into the empty space it misses and I swear. I try again, miss that time too. Gritting my teeth, I grip my wrist with my other hand and slip the chip in. The tray of targeting blades slide back in.

         “Charlie lock!” I yell into my earpiece, heading for the railing.

         “You have fifteen seconds to get the hell out of there,” Maria says. I hesitate, perched on top of the railing that lines the catwalk.

         “Sam and Clint?”

         “Grounded.” A thud and a screech of metal has me looking down.

         “Uh. We’ve got our hands full.” Then I leap over the railing.

         On the way down, I angle my descent so that I’ll crash into the supersoldiers, tucking my head down and sheltering it with my arms. The force of the impact rattles my bones, and my reapers slip out of the armguards, catching something on the way out. Rolling out of the tangle of limbs, I bring one reaper around in a slashing arc to dig deep into the Soldier’s flesh arm.

         He roars in pain, but Steve manages to grab him in a choke hold.

         “Five seconds, Cam, get out!” Maria yells in my ear.

         “Fire now!” Steve yells.

         “But, Steve—“

         “Now, Maria!” I exclaim, because the Soldier had gotten enough leverage to flip Steve over and escape the chokehold and he’s heading straight for me. I bring my reapers up to protect my face from the metal arm heading straight towards it, the blades jamming themselves into the Soldier’s arm. I wrench them out, ducking as a shield flies forwards, slamming into the Soldier’s chest.

         And then… everything explodes.

~~~~~

         I blacked out at some point, but I know it’s not for long because I’m not dead yet and there are pieces of debris falling all around me, similar to the one that’s impaled in my leg. I hiss in pain as I attempt to lift myself to my feet, but collapse back to the floor.

         There’s a roar of effort from off to my right, where I’d last seen the Soldier. Steve is already beside him, muscles straining to lift a massive length of metal off of his former childhood friend.

         I clench my jaw, bracing my hands on the slippery glass, and drag myself over to position my hands underneath the metal on the Soldier’s other side. Together, Steve and I pull the metal up just enough for the Soldier to wriggle out from under it.

         An earth-shaking _boom_ , and the sound of glass shattering.

         “You know me,” Steve says, imploring.

         “No, I _don’t_!” the Soldier yells, metal arm slamming into the shield.

          _“No, I_ don’t _!” I wail, tears blurring my vision._

_“Котенок, you know you can’t use that language anymore,” a softly reproachful female voice says._

_“Then why are you using it?” I reply defiantly, with all the knowledge of an eight-year-old._

_Eight._

_I’m eight._

_This is me, when I was Hydra._

_When I was_ Hydra.

_“Котенок, don’t be contrary,” the same voice says. I bring a hand up to wipe the tears away._

_It’s the same woman. The one with green eyes._

_“Котенок, you need to listen to me,” she says, green eyes wide and imploring and so soft and friendly unlike anything I’d seen in my short time wherever I was. “I need you to listen to me.”_

_“You’re with them, aren’t you?” I say stubbornly. “You’re with_ them _.”_

_“Not for very much longer, котенок,” she whispers. “Not for very much longer.”_

         A jarring crash wakes me from my trance, and I look up at the Soldier with wide eyes.

         It’s just the Soldier and me now. Steve is gone, and the eyes that used to belong to James Buchanan Barnes are staring at me, pinning me in place even as the rest of me screams to _find Steve_.

         “Ты меня знаешь,” I whisper. The same thing Steve had said. Different implications. Because those memories that weren’t mine—they were. They were all mine.

         “Я знал одну девушку,” the Soldier says softly. Another crash as something else smashes through the glass.

         “Я была той девушкой.”

         “Ты больше не ее.”

         I shrug. My throat is dry.

         “Не долго, я не думаю.”

         “Этот человек. Я знаю его, не правда ли?”

         “Почему бы тебе не пойти и не выяснить?” I reply, stepping aside. The broken husk of James Buchanan Barnes walks past me, as if in a trance, turning his back to me. Not the same girl he knew, but not quite different after all.

         “Они сделали это с тобой, не так ли?” the not-quite-Soldier asks. “Программирование.”

         “Не как ты,” I murmur after a beat of hesitation. The not-quite-Soldier glances over his shoulder at me for a moment.

         “The river. That’s where he’ll be.”

         And then he jumps.

~~~~~

Translations, all in order. Really sorry if I fucked anything up.

You know me.

I knew a girl.

I was that girl.

You’re not her anymore.

Haven’t been for a long time, I think.

That man. I know him, don’t I?

Why don’t you go find out?

They did it to you, didn’t they? The programming.

Not like you.

~~~~~

         The dreams come and go.

         Or at least some of them are dreams. Snatches of conversation, of white walls that turn into boring grey concrete as soon as I blink. Cold metal around my wrists and neck and ankles.

         Being cold.

          _“What do I call you?”_

_“You can call me Nightingale.”_

_A beat of silence._

_“Why did you bring me here? It’s cold.”_

_“You better get used to it, котенок. It’s going to get a lot colder where we’re going.”_

_“They’re moving me?”_

_“They’re withdrawing resources.”_

_“What’s that mean?”_

_“They’re moving you.”_

         Another cold day, but not the same one.

          _“Why do they call him the Winter Soldier?”_

_“Because they’ve tortured all the emotion out of him.”_

Shifting. Murmurs. Light. Darkness.

          _“Why do I have to learn?”_

_“You ask too many questions, котенок.”_

_“You’ve never said that before.”_

_“You’re getting older. You need to learn to be more careful.”_

_“Is that going to be a lesson too?”_

_“Yes.”_

         Dark room. A shooting range, I think. The Winter Soldier stares at me from across the room.

          _“Командир послал тебя?”_

_“Негативный.”_

_“Ты говоришь, как робот.”_

         Another dark room. The Soldier and I are locked in.

_“Знаешь, почему нас сюда поместили?”_

_“Мы не подчинились приказу. Поставила под угрозу цель миссии.”_

_“Ты действительно говоришь как робот.”_

_“Заткнись!” a harsh voice barks._

~~~~~

Did the commander send you?

Negative

You sound like a robot.

 

Do you know why they put us here?

We disobeyed orders. Compromised the mission objective.

You really do sound like a robot.

Shut up!

~~~~~ 

         When I finally wake up for good, Clint is passed out in a chair and Natasha is perched on the edge of my bed.

 


	14. My Summer of Avengering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. I’m so sorry that I haven’t updated lately, I have no idea what the fuck happened. This is mainly a filler chapter, since I wanted to take a little bit of a break from the action and just have something that digs deeper into the relationships between characters that Cam hasn’t been around a lot on-screen (on-book?) so far. I’ll try and get the next chapter up as soon as possible, so until now here’s this extra-long one that really should be two chapters but isn’t.

         “It’s just something small. A project that we can work on while we’ve got time to get out of state.”

         “It’s a _farm_ , Clint.”

         “More of a ranch, actually.”

         “Bullshit.”

         “… I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

         “You already bought it, didn’t you.”

         “Uhhhh…”

         “You’re a dick.”

         “…”

         “When do I get to take a look at it?”

~~~~~

         There’s a farm out in the middle of Iowa that Clint owns.

         Lucky, a golden retriever Clint decided to adopt after the dog saved his own stupid ass, lives there now that Clint and I are staying over in the Tower a bit too much to keep asking Kate to take care of him.

         Barney’s ex-wife, Laura, moves in with two kids and another just beginning to develop in the womb.

         She tells us that Lucky is having a great time running around on the farm.

         Kat complains about not being able to see the dog as much as she’d like, but she drives out anyways and spends a good portion of her time off there with her girlfriend America.

         I make it through the rest of the year of college and prepare to enjoy a summer of relaxation and full-time secret agenting.

         Meanwhile, Avengering is same as always.

         Which is to say, weird as fuck.

~~~~~

         “Come on, flygirl, pick up the pace!” Tony yells, zipping past me in a blur of red and gold.

         “I’ll speed up when I’m done saving your ass!” I call back, twisting in midair so that I’m flying backwards as I fire off a round to deter the fanged pterodactyl chasing us down 46th Street of NYC.

         “Can anyone make it down to the Disney store on 47th?” Steve asks. There is an explosion a few blocks off, and then the sound of a shield slamming into something big and fleshy can be heard over the comms.

         “I’ll be right there,” Clint replies. There’s a quiet _thwip_ , and then the sound of the wind whistling in my ears.

         “Stop by Broadway after you’re done on 8th,” Natasha grunts, the sound of a gun firing audible. “I can’t hold pterodactyls and Doombots off with one cartridge.”

         An intersection is fast approaching, and Tony and I split up.

         Naturally, the pterodactyl follows me.

         “You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I grumble, holstering my guns and reaching down to grab my whip. Another turn is coming up soon, and I crack my whip. I risk a glance behind me, turn drawing ever closer. “You better follow me around this corner, you stupid dinosaur,” I mutter.

         The turn comes up. I don’t change directions. I can see my reflection in the glass windows of the building. And then I swerve violently, tucking my knees up and feeling my feet meet the glass.

         Pushing off, I rocket through the air, directly past the pterodactyl, whip lashing out as I fly by.

         The dinosaur lets out a high-pitched screech as I near the next building, quickly reversing my flight in order to slow myself down.

         The pterodactyl hits the ground with a massive thud.

         “Hey, just thought everyone should know that I’m on the roof of a 60-story office building on 42nd because I think I might need to jump off of it in a few seconds.”

         “Goddamit, Clint,” I mutter. A laser soars over my head, hitting the building in front of me. Whirling around, I see Doombots situated on top of the building opposite.

         “Does anyone have eyes on Hawkeye?” Steve asks. He grunts soon after, the sound of metal crumpling following.

         “Verily!” Thor booms. I wince. “The man with eyes of a hawk is safe with me!”

         “Thanks, buddy,” Clint says as I propel myself through the air and towards the Doombots. “I’m jumping now, so if you’d stop by before I reach ground level, that would be great.”

         I don’t hear Thor’s reply, because I’m too busy listening to the sound of Doombots crumpling under my feet. Two down, five to go.

         “Why are we dealing with Doom today?” I wonder out loud, ducking under a laser and unholstering a gun. “What happened to the Fantastic Four?”

         “They’re in Africa dealing with a rogue magician, so Doom decided to pick on us today,” Natasha replies dryly.

         “That’s just great,” I grouse, slamming the butt of my gun into the chest of a Doombot and leaving a sizeable dent as well as pushing it back a few steps. “What about Daredevil?” I shoot another through the head while I have the breathing space. “We’re practically on the boundary of Hell’s Kitchen, why can’t he come up a few blocks and help the fuck out?”

         “Can anyone get to Times Square?” Sam asks. “There’s a T-Rex rampaging here and I’ve got my hands full with a four-winged pterodactyl.”

         “On my way,” Steve grunts.

         I shoot the last Doombot through the chest and use its falling body as a springboard to launch myself towards 7th.

         “Captain Righteous just stole a motorcycle,” Clint informs everyone.

         “Borrowed,” the super soldier corrects, the sound of a purring engine audible in the background.

         “Doesn’t look like that.”

         “The T-Rex breathes fire!” Sam yelps, followed by an explosion.

         “Right, sorry.”

~~~~~

         Even Captain America, it seems, can’t go up against a fire-breathing T-Rex and a squad of Doombots and come out of it unscathed.

         He’s dragged into the Tower, uniform still smoldering, with third-degree burns on his right arm and laser-induced injuries all over his torso.

         Tony, of course, uses this as a perfect opportunity to grope Steve under the pretense of helping him to the medical wing.

         If I’m being honest, though, who wouldn’t?

         Natasha watches the two disappear into an elevator with a wicked glint in her eyes that promises something fun for her but probably traumatic for others. When she looks at you like that, you _run_.

         I’d feel bad for Steve and Tony if not for the fact that they’d been dancing around each other for nearly two years.

         Clint is propped up against Sam with a broken ankle and mild abrasions on his left arm from where he’d toppled off of the roof of another building while nobody was there to catch him. The other man is trying hard not to, but I can see his expression fighting valiantly to remain neutral.

         It was kinda hard to feel sorry for Clint when this happens on a regular basis.

         Especially when the last thing we’d heard from the archer was, “I’m fine!” right before a pterodactyl had pushed him off the edge.

         Apart from those two, the rest of the team is relatively unscathed, but we all need to go into medical for a mandatory checkup, implemented after Clint had hidden three bullet wounds after a skirmish with some AIM soldiers. Bruce wanders into the waiting room to say a quick hello before disappearing once more; we hadn’t brought the Hulk out because the pterodactyls and Doombots had been running around a residential area. We’d spent a good twenty minutes evacuating the place before we’d had the opportunity to kick ass without worrying about civilian injuries.

         I hate doctors and hospitals. Not just because they were constantly prodding and poking, but because they asked questions. Questions are hard to answer if you don’t quite know the answers to, and with the type of queries the doctors I see usually throw my way, it’s rare that I ever know the answer.

         Another thing that I hate about them is that they look at me with pity. They look at the scars mapping my skin and see them as products of unwilling experimentation and torture. And the ones drawn over my hips, swirling in elegant patterns—those are the ones that I hate them looking at the most. They look at them with worry in their eyes, and I hate that they tell a story that I don’t want anyone to see.

         The year out of the fold was hard, most of it full of adjusting to a life so unlike the one that I’d left behind that it was like waking up in the 21st century all over again. There was so much that I had to leave behind, and not all of it was physical.

         And there was even more that I wanted to leave behind, shed like a snake shed its skin, but I didn’t have that privilege. I’ll always carry pain with me. Everyone will at some point in their life, but some people’s burdens are heavier than others’. The baggage I dragged with every step I took was something that others used to help me bear, but I had to leave them behind with everything else I was forced to drop in return for that twisted freedom.

         Sometimes taking a blade to skin and cutting that pain out was the best way to cope.

         But now—now I live among friends that would never let me do that to myself again, would support me throughout whatever came my way. There is no reason to try and cut the pain away anymore, because there are people to lift my burden and make it lighter.

         I’m not naïve enough to think that they can help me get rid of it, but I know that they’ll be enough—more than enough, even—to deal with the mental weight that’s latched onto me.

         This doctor is no different than the rest, eyeballing the scars that I’d etched into my skin as if to make sure that I hadn’t tried to add to or reopen them. Other than that, though, she smiles and does the checkup and sends me off with a, “You’re all set!” without saying anything.

         But I know that she’s going to go to my files as soon as I’m out of the room and jot down a note that says that my condition ‘hasn’t worsened’ or that I ‘seem to be retaining a state of mental stability’.

~~~~~

         I’m not stupid; what I did—cutting my skin open and letting the blood well up without a thought towards staunching the flow of red—doesn’t just vanish immediately. There are times, moments where I’ll feel the need to cut the pain away. That putting physical marks on myself might alleviate the burden that is anything but physical.

         After seeing the doctor’s look of pity as her clear green gaze (the sight of which had sent my mind looping back around to the woman, the one from my dreams born out of lost memory) took in my scars, I feel that urge again. The need to cut, be it out of spite or to forget for a few blissful moments, what that look of pity had looked like.

         I seek out Clint instead of a blade, because I know Natasha will be with him, berating him for not paying attention or just sitting quietly at his side.

         Poking my head into the room, I see that Natasha has wedged herself into the hospital bed beside our resident archer. I grin.

         “They keeping you here?” I ask, entering the room completely and walking over to stand beside the bed.

         “I don’t see why they don’t trust me to not do anything stupid,” Clint grumbles.

        “I think it has to do with the time you snuck out through the air vents with a stab wound, a broken ankle and a mild concussion,” Natasha points out. She looks at me meaningfully, gesturing for me to join the two on the bed. I look at it dubiously, but my two partners both edge a little to the side, leaving a small wedge of space for me.

         I sigh, but crawl in on Clint’s other side. His hand rests on my waist, just over the scars, and there’s part of me that’s freaking out, but there’s still another part that whispers _friend_ and tells the other half to chill the fuck out.

         “You came just in time,” Nat says, chin resting on Clint’s shoulder. “I was just about to tell Clint about what happened to the resident pining lovebirds.”

         “It doesn’t have anything to do about how you were looking at them like they were next on your hit list, does it?” I ask innocently, letting a smile curl the corners of my mouth.

         “Not at all,” the redhead replies slyly, smirking. “It just so happens that after the doctors had finished with Tony’s checkup and patched up Steve, the door to Steve’s room locked. By some terrible coincidence, Tony was in there checking in on the Captain, and nobody seems to be able to find the key to the room. Even JARVIS can’t figure out how to unlock the door.” Nat sighs. “Seems like they’re locked in for the foreseeable future.”

         “What a shame,” I deadpan.

~~~~~

         Dinner that night is a rowdy affair. Even if it isn’t exactly a rare occurrence for Thor to pop up to help us deal with Avenger things, it is rare that he has enough time to stay for dinner.

         As a result, we make the most of it.

         Everyone, even Steve with his third-degree burns and Clint with his broken ankle in a new cast, is showing up, which means that we’re ordering copious amounts of takeout to accommodate for all enhanced metabolisms.

         Out of the three of us who live at the Tower full-time and the other three who tend to drop in, only Nat, Bruce and I have the ability to cook something other than eggs. Steve, of course, isn’t allowed within twenty yards of the kitchen after the time he burnt water and almost managed to blow up the kitchen. Clint doesn’t quite know how to operate anything other than the coffee machine, the toaster and the microwave when something needs to be reheated, and even then there’s a 95% chance he’ll make something explode if he isn’t using the coffeemaker. Tony either orders something from a nearby takeout place or doesn’t eat for days on account of being locked down in his lab.

         Even if three of us can cook, the ones who can’t don’t usually bug us to cook anything. Which is honestly a relief, because everyone in this place has bottomless stomachs.

         Honestly, the Tower could single-handedly keep the takeout industry in business because that seems to be all we eat.

         Tony produces an unnecessarily large amount of alcohol, the kitchen counters are laden with both empty and half-eaten takeout boxes and someone has pulled up _The Office_ on the TV.

         The night ends with everyone sprawled out in the living room, wedged onto furniture not designed to hold that many people at once.

         Clumped together on a couch is Tony, Steve, Pepper and Rhodey, the latter two invited by Nat and Tony respectively. Pepper is leaning against the arm of the couch, Rhodey sleeping against her shoulder, while Tony is sprawled out over everyone, head pillowed on Steve’s lap and arm hanging over the side to brush the floor as he sleeps. Steve is looking down at the billionaire amusedly, but, to everyone’s disappointment, there doesn’t seem to be anything other than platonic fondness in the supersoldier’s eyes. Still, this had never happened before, so I mark it in the good column.

         Sam, Bruce and Thor take up another couch, Thor taking half of it up by himself and Sam and Bruce making do with the other half. Clint, Nat and I have managed to wedge ourselves into the limited space on the loveseat, Nat scrunched up in one end while Clint and I lie across the rest of it in different directions.

         The TV is flickering, and through my cracked eyelids I can just see Die Hard 2 being played out on the screen. Clint’s chest rises and falls rhythmically against my legs. Someone would have to take his hearing aids out or he’d be complaining about his aching ears all day tomorrow.

         It’s peaceful and comforting to fall asleep like this.

         To know that I’m surrounded by friends.

~~~~~

         I wake up in tears a week later and crawl into the vents, shaking from the memory of the not-quite-dream.

          _“Ты крошечный,” the Soldier grunts, looking down at me. I’m sprawled out on cold stone, body aching from numerous beat downs. “Легко победить.”_

_I push myself to my feet, entire body groaning in protest._

_“Ты мой учитель,” I say, voice rough from disuse. The Soldier’s back is turned, but his metal fist is clenched. “Научи меня, как победить.”_

_“Против кого?”_

_“Кто-нибудь,” I reply, small fists clenching and jagged nails digging into bruised, bleeding palms. “Каждый.” Determination laces my words, because we both know there is an enemy to be beaten and we stand as part of it._

          _“Есть несколько противников, которых нельзя победить,” the Soldier says grimly, turning to face me. His statement carries as much weight as mine._

          _“Это не правда,” I insist, because I am eight and naïve and stupid._

          _“Вы не встречали их раньше,” the Soldier says quietly._

          _“Да, у меня есть,” I snap back stubbornly. The Soldier’s jaw twitches and locks._

          _“Снова,” he says tonelessly, sinking into a fighting stance. “Веди с атакой. Не дай мне ударить тебя первым.”_

~~~~~

***record scratch* *freeze frame* *words scroll up***

**I neither speak or write Russian, so excuse the shitty translations if they’re shitty.**

**You’re tiny. Easy to beat.**

**You’re my teacher. Teach me how to win.**

**Against who?**

**Anybody. Everybody.**

**There are some opponents who cannot be beaten.**

**That’s not true.**

**You haven’t met them before.**

**Yes I have.**

**Again. Lead with the attack. Do not let me strike you first.**

~~~~~

         The door to my room creaks open quietly, and I stiffen instinctively, thinking of the vent cover that I’d left on the floor in my haste to cram myself into the air ducts.

         “Cam?” a familiar voice stage whispers. “Cam?”

         I shift slightly, socked feet making quiet rasping noises against the metal air ducts.

         The sound of footsteps place Steve on the other side of my bed, closest to the door, and then they stop right in front of the bed. From this angle and at his height, I know that the supersoldier will be able to see both the vent cover lying forgotten on the ground and the very tips of my socks.

         “Are you okay?” Steve asks hesitantly.

         I snort, pressing the heels of my palms against my burning eyes. “Are any of us?”

         A pause, which is more than enough of a _‘Touché’_ than needed to be verbalised.

         “Do you have enough room to move around in there?” Steve finally asks.

         I blink, surprised. “Yes?”

         It comes out more of a question than an answer, and I silently curse myself for it, but Steve seems to take it as answer enough.

         “You can stay there if you want,” he offers. I can hear his weight shifting, as if preparing to head back out. “I’m going to make some tea.”

         “Isn’t that a bit too British for the symbol of American freedom?” I rasp, pressing my forehead to the cool metal of the vents, eyes clenched shut.

         Steve huffs out a surprised laugh. “I suppose so, but you’ve gotta admit that the Brits knew what they were doing.”

         I breathe out slowly as Steve’s footsteps retreat back into the living room that’s connected to a small kitchen. My breathing is evening out, the familiar rhythm of ribbing Steve settling my racing heart. My head is aching, like my brain had been pried out of my head and clumsily replaced in its efforts to unearth whatever mind fuckery Hydra had left me with.

         The kettle whistles from the kitchen, and I swear when I bang my head against the metal walls of the vents.

         Movement in the kitchen ceases.

         “Cam?” Steve calls worriedly. “You alright?”

         “I’m fine, mama bear,” I reply tiredly, curling up and shifting so that my upper body is facing the exit to the vents. “Cool your jets.” The door to the bedroom creaks open, and soft footsteps make their way around the bed. A mug of tea, bold black letters on the mug spelling out ‘MY IDEA OF HELP FROM ABOVE IS A SNIPER ON THE ROOF’.

         A gag gift from Natasha taken seriously.

         Wiggling my arm out from where it was pinned beneath my hip, I snag the tea and drag it back into the vents. Steve doesn’t comment on it, and I hear him settle down beside the opening.

         “Sam and I are leaving tomorrow,” he tells me. There’s something sad in his voice. It reminds me of Ckint whenever he talks about SHIELD. It speaks of things lost but not forgotten.

         Bucky.

         The name is foreign to me, because I had known the Winter Soldier, the Asset under Hydra’s control. Not Bucky, whoever that was. Even if Steve gave me a detailed life recap of Bucky Barnes, I don’t think I’d ever be able to _know_ him like I would have if I’d known him in person. It’s strange to think of Steve’s childhood friend as Bucky. Not when I’d known him as the man who’d nearly taken my eye out with a well-placed blow.

         Bucky, as a concept, is abstract. There is nothing from my own experience that I can pin to that name.

         “You’re not going to find him if he doesn’t want to be found,” I say quietly. I almost didn’t tell him, but the words clawed at my throat and begged to be let out. “He used to be the Winter Soldier, whether you want it or not.”

         Steve breathes out slowly.

         “I know,” he says, whispering. I want to laugh. It’s one in the morning, and the only person in the Tower who might be awake at this point is Tony, and he’s on the lab five floors below. I may share my floor with Clint and Nat at times, but Nat is away on a not-SHIELD-sanctioned mission (code for: SHIELD may have fallen, but Nick is still calling the shots from time to time) and Clint is in Bed-Stuy for one reason or another. Probably to watch for the any Tracksuit Mafia members who may have taken his week-long absence as incentive to attack the apartment.

         “I just thought that maybe if I kept looking, then he’d know that I want to find him, even if he’s still the Soldier,” Steve continues, interrupting my runaway train of thought. “That he’d know I wouldn’t care.”

         I mull over the words, carefully forming my reply. Steve likes to hear the truth, I know that. He may not like it, but he needs to hear it. But there’s a difference between telling the truth and telling the _truth_. I can’t be harsh, give it to him like slap to the face. He needs to be eased into it to avoid any reckless, split-second righteous action.

         “I’m waking up more often,” I begin gently. “There’s always something new in my head when I do.”

         A pause.

         “You think that’s what Bucky’s going through,” Steve says. And isn’t this a strange conversation to be having with one of us curled up in the vents with a mug of tea tucked into the crook of their elbow, the other sitting cross-legged outside of the vents with their own mug of tea.

         Nothing in my life has ever been normal, I don’t think.

         “Yeah,” I reply, blowing gently on my tea. The steam rising from the mug is hitting my chin, and when I move away the vents feel colder than usual. “From what I can remember, they kept him—the Soldier—on a different sort of… brainwash. Than me, I mean. Like, I was being brainwashed one way and he was being brainwashed in another.”

         I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead into the cool metal of the vents.

         “I don’t know how to explain it. I was younger. My mind was more malleable. They could shape it however they wanted, and it’s stupid, but I’m so grateful towards them. That they didn’t turn me into something…” I bite my lip, grasping for words that don’t quite fit. “Something,” I finish lamely, taking a sip of scalding tea. “The Soldier—fuck, I mean, _fuck_ — _Bucky_ , he was older. His brain was wired one way, and they couldn’t change it completely like they could’ve with me. And. I dunno. They—fuck, I dunno. His mind fuckery is different.“

         _Eloquent as always._

         I resist the urge to bang my head against something in an attempt to get that dry, deadpan tone out of my head, because I shouldn’t still be hearing him after two years and it _hurts_ that I’ll never be able to hear that voice again.

         “You always call him that.”

         I don’t miss the way that the supersoldier doesn’t say it. The Soldier. Two words, but not empty. On the contrary, they’re packed full of meaning. Meaning tied tightly to murder and violence.

         “It’s what I knew him as,” I say in a small voice. There’s something about Steve’s voice, when he’d spoken. Something tight and fragile. Easily breakable.

         I don’t want to be the cause of America’s most patriotic Boy Scout breaking down in my room at two in the morning over a name.

         “He wasn’t always like that,” Steve says. And. Oh _no_.

         “I know,” I hasten to assure him. “But I think, even after all the brainwashing that I’m always going to think of the person you knew as Bucky as the Soldier, because the way you talk about him make him an entirely different person. And I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to call him that, because I won’t feel comfortable calling him I never knew. And after all this, I don’t think he’ll ever be the person you knew.”

         Steve is silent, and for a moment I think that’s it because I broke the thing that Should Not Be Broken.

         “JARVIS was the one who told me you woke up,” he says.

         I frown at the sudden change in topic and the tense aura around his voice, but decide that the Topic should be left Avoided for now, because Talking About It is reserved for small, emotional bursts of Talking and my tea is getting cold. I take a sip.

         “Why?”

         “I asked him to,” Steve says simply. I take a long draw from the mug, because, _wow_ , hello mama bear. This isn’t something that I’m used to. Displays of obvious caring like this. Natasha and Clint care in their own ways, but this is Caring in the more mainstream way. Or, well, as mainstream as it gets with superheroes. “You and Tony” —and I nearly choke on my tea, because what— “don’t seem to have solid support systems outside one or two people.” Steve huffs out a long sigh, and I hear him shift slightly. “You worry me, you know,” he confesses, so quietly that if I didn’t have enhanced hearing then I probably would’ve never heard him. “Well. Not you, but what happened to you. Back then. With them.”

         “Hydra,” I breathe. Saying the name out loud used to never carry the weight that it does now, but from what I’ve been not-quite-dreaming, I don’t think they used me for two years then froze me for another fifty-so.

         “I think we both know that the timeline doesn’t fit,” Steve says. “For the memories.” And I remember telling him, after the Winter Soldier fiasco, when we were both confined to beds and moved into the same room so that Nat and Clint could keep watchful eyes on us at the same time. Something had flickered behind his eyes when I’d told him of the man he knew as his best friend nearly scraping my eyeball out of its socket in a brutal sparring match.

         I swallow roughly, hips throbbing.

         “I spent a good ten years dealing with things by myself,” I say carefully. “Or, I mean, I thought I did. Because I never told anyone, really, but some of them seemed to know.” There is sorrow clawing it’s way up from my stomach, working its way up my throat and lodging itself there in an attempt to block my words. I’m not sure how to feel about how comfortable I am with carving a cavity to force the words through. “And when I left, I realized just how much I wasn’t dealing when I didn’t have people to help. And I did bad things. Like, not bad-bad things, but things. And…” I groan, tipping my head to rest against the vents. “And I wanted to just stop. Stop being, I guess. But not completely, I don’t think. And I stopped with the bad things. But they left marks. They definitely left marks. And, uh. I didn’t like the marks, so I covered them up. And being back, that’s just peeling the shitty paint job off. And I’m not sure how to feel about it, but I know that I don’t want to stop anymore. And I don’t want to stop stopping either, so. There’s that. And. God. That must have been so confusing, I don’t know how to—“

         “I think I get what you’re saying,” Steve says softly. “And I also think that you’re making progress. And I’m glad that you feel comfortable telling me things like that.”

~~~~~

         I fall asleep in the vents, neck angled awkwardly and body contorted in a half fetal position, but I’ve never been more comfortable around somone that wasn’t Nat, Clint or Phil—oh god, _Phil_ —in my life.

~~~~~

         “Tony!” I yell, walking into the workshop only to be greeted by unnecessarily-loud heavy metal. “Tony!” No answer. “Tony!”

         Something nudges my foot, and I jump, settling into a fighting stance on instinct. Looking down, I see a small, circular robot, almost like a roomba, trundling up to my foot again. I stand stock still as the little thing makes a loop around my Converse, before running into my foot again. If it had eyes, I’d swear that it would be giving me an expectant look.

         Taking a step back, I look at the not-roomba warily. The not-roomba rotates, before setting off into the workshop.

         I follow it.

         Tony, as it turns out, is bent at the waist, and would be touching his toes if he wasn’t buried in the bottom half of his Iron Man suit grumbling about acid.

         I clear my throat. No response.

         Glancing down at the not-roomba, I give it a helpless look.

         The not-roomba zooms forward at a much faster speed than it ha been moving previously, and slams into the Iron Man armor.

         Tony’s bottom half jumps, and I hear a _bang_ followed by a stream of swearing as Tony extricates himself from the armor.

         “Little fucking shit, I swear I’m going to disable—wonder girl?”

         I cock an eyebrow as I take in Tony’s appearance. If I didn’t know better and saw him walking down the street in this state, I’d put my life savings on him being a hobo. His hair is sticking out in all directions, grease and oil streaking through it. His facial hair is looking less like a carefully-sculpted goatee and more like a developing bread. His face is smeared with some dirt-like substance and oil is smeared just under his right eye. His eyes are bloodshot and have a sort of maniacal glint to them. He’s wearing a white tank top, but the bottom is ripped and torn, the rips giving away the fact that they were caught on something sharp and ripped away carelessly. His feet are bare, and the sweatpants are covered in even more grease and oil.

         “You look like shit,” I say bluntly.

         “Hey, genius never-never waits for-for showers,” Tony says with a shrug. The tired, almost slurred nature of his words and dark bags under his eyes gives him away, though.

         “Okay, come here,” I sigh, tucking the small box I’d been holding into my back pocket and reaching out to snatch the screwdriver in Tony’s hand away. When he makes a small noise of dissent and reaches for the screwdriver, I snag his wrist and drag him back the way I’d come. For some reason, the roomba follows us into the elevator and into the kitchen.

         Shoving Tony into one of the bar stools at the counter and telling him to stay, I rummage around in the fridge.

         “Why’re you here?” Tony asks, slumped over the counter.

         “Not important right now,” I reply dismissively, setting eggs, milk, chives, cheese, bread and butter on the counter. “What is is the fact that you’re not fucking eating.”

         “You’re worse than Steve,” Tony grumbles as I pull out a pan. “Nagging and hovering, the both of you.”

         “The only one nagging and hovering is Steve,” I point out, grabbing a bowl and two plates. “I’m not here most of the time. And Steve’s got a good reason to hover and nag.”

         “Still.”

         I snort, cracking an egg. “You need it,” I say firmly. “If you didn’t have Steve, you’d waste away in that damn workshop.”

         “I’d be fine.”

         “That’s bullshit and we both know it,” I reply, adding a bit of milk to the eggs, followed by a few pinches of the chives. “You’re lucky I came when I did, else it’d be Steve forcing you to eat.” There’s silence as I whisk the eggs before pouring the mixture into the pan.

         “Why’re you here?” Tony asks again as I open the bread.

         I shrug. “Clint needs new aids, but he wanted to see if you could fine-tune the old ones up a bit.”

         “How’d he break ‘em?”

         I pause, before setting the toaster. “It was an accident,” I reply vaguely, turning back to stir the eggs with one hand as the other reaches for the shredded cheese. “No big deal.”

         A snort.

         “No big deal like the nightmare that made it happen?”

         I stiffen.

         “Genius, remember?” Tony says bitterly. He sighs. “He needs to talk to someone.” When I risk a glance at the billionaire, he has his head pillowed on his arms on the counter.

         I breathe out slowly. “He is,” I say quietly. I turn off the stove, stirring the eggs one final time before I turn to take the toast out of the toaster. “Maybe think about taking a page out of his book.”

         “Trust me, no therapist would want to listen to my shit,” Tony says as I begin to butter the toast.

         “You’d be surprised,” I reply. “SHIELD therapists have been through some rough times lately. I’m sure one of them would be willing to listen to your problems in return for employment.”

         “If they’re not all Hydra, you mean.”

         “There are a few I know,” I counter. “And if not, Clint’s can probably find a few hours for you.”

         “I’ll think about it if you do,” Tony fires back, sitting up. I sigh, picking up the pan on the stove to scrape the eggs out.

         “And if I do?”

         “Then I go.”

         The toast goes on the plates, and I slide one of them over to Tony.

         “I’ll think about it.”


	15. Wham, Bam, Slam—Lasers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the super-long hiatus for no other reason than lack of motivation and a sudden burst of inspiration pertaining to a different story, I worked all night to get this chapter up and to make it as long as the last one. Hope you enjoy two (almost) back-to-back updates. Feedback is appreciated. I don’t have a beta, so if anyone sees any errors, please point them out and I’ll get them fixed. Again, I’m so sorry about the long hiatus.

         “Holy shit, guys!” I yell, pushing off of a tree and flying full-force at a nearby Hydra soldier. “These guns are fucking  _ awesome _ .”

         “They’re not that awesome when you’re the one being shot at,” Clint grunts into the comm. An armoured Jeep crashes through the woods below, and I see arrows flying out one after the other.

         “Hush, they’re rad,” I admonish, dropping onto the back of the Jeep that Nat is driving and kicking an advancing one back, the force of the kick propelling the Jeep we’re on forwards. The wheels fight for traction, slipping and sliding on the ground, but thankfully Nat corrects our course so that we don’t ram into a tree.

         “If you want to say things like ‘rad’, you need to sound like you’ve been smoking pot for the last 24 hours,” Clint rebukes. A laser flies past us, narrowly missing the side of my face.

         I whistle.

         “I want a portable version of their car guns,” I decide, launching off of the back of the Jeep and ramming into the one behind. The whole thing groans, wheels stuttering. I launch myself up, then drop down, using the momentum of my fall to knock the soldier manning the gun flat on his ass. Thor zooms by in a blur of reed and silver, Tony fast on his heels, and I chuck the remaining soldier off into the forest before launching off.

         Stray branches limit my range of flight, but there’s still a fair amount of room for me to fly. Uncoiling my whip from within my jacket, I swing it at the base of one of the makeshift watchtowers. Skidding to a stop in midair, I yank hard and add a little bit of a kick with my flight, and it all comes tumbling down. A few of the smarter soldiers jump from the platform on top, landing in the snow. While they’re disoriented, I drop to the ground and engage.

         The first two to rush me open fire with their laser guns, but don’t get more than three shots out before my whip snarls them around the waist and I send them flying. The next three are a little smarter, running for cover behind the ruins of their watchtower.

         “Look out!” Thor yells from behind me. I duck, just as Mjölnr crashes out of the woods, scattering the Hydra soldiers. I grin, bringing my whip around to snag one of them by the foot, dragging them towards me. Spinning in a circle, both hands gripping the handle of my whip, I release them at full speed towards one of their comrades. A laser hits me in the back, and I stagger forwards before recovering, whip lashing out blindly.

         “Watch it!” Steve yells as he drives by, leaning to the side dangerously in order to grab the foot of the third soldier. He keeps on driving, dragging the soldier behind him, and I call my thanks as I launch myself off the ground. Flying above everybody, I weave in between trees and keep an eye out for any stray soldiers. The wind blows any hairs that have escaped from my ponytail out of my face, whipping past me at top speed. The jacket Tony had recently designed for me is working smoothly, inside heated and outside letting the wind roll off of me with minimal resistance.

         “Lady Lynx!” Thor calls from below, flinging an armoured Jeep up.

         Twisting, I bring my legs up against my chest, and when the Jeep flies close enough, I kick out full force. It crashes back into the ground, creating a crater that Steve ramps over on his motorcycle, having lost the soldier he’d grabbed earlier.

         The Hulk roars, flinging Hydra soldiers left and right as Clint and Nat drive by in their Jeep. Lasers whizz through the trees, and up ahead there are metal spikes impaled in the ground, angled to take out the wheels of any vehicle that might approach. Dropping low and vaulting off the Hulk’s shoulders, I reach down and grab the front handlebars of Steve’s motorcycle, moving my arms forwards and propelling him over the spikes. Nat turns the Jeep sideways, the force of the motion flinging both her and Clint out of the Jeep and over the barricade. Thor charges forwards through the air, hammer held in front of him and Tony barely a second behind. Hulk snags me as he jumps over, momentum failing me after throwing Steve.

         He lands with bone-rattling force, tossing me forwards so that I catch up to Tony. Thor lands not far off, lightning arcing up from his impact spot. Steve is expertly navigating the forest below, while Tony flies ahead towards the main base. I tuck and roll, landing invisibly and taking advantage of the lack of snow to give away my location. My whip is quickly stowed away inside my jacket once more, and I slam my armguards onto my thighs as I charge forwards. My reapers unsheathe silently, joints locking into place, and I launch myself at the nearby Hydra soldiers. 

         “Shit!” Tony says all of a sudden.

         “Language,” Steve replies, almost immediately. I pause incredulously, which gives the soldier I’m fighting an opening to shoot me in the chest. I swear, because seriously, fuck lucky shots, and jam my reaper into his neck. “JARVIS, what’s the view from upstairs?”

         “The central building is protected by some kind of energy shield,” the AI responds dutifully. “Strucker’s technology is well beyond any other Hydra base we’ve taken.”

         “Was it the lasers that gave it away?” I ask dryly, flinging my arm out so that my reaper slams into the stomach of a nearby soldier. “Also, energy shield? That sounds right up my alley.”

         “Loki’s sceptre must be here,” Thor chimes in over the comm. “Strucker couldn’t mount this defense without it.” A yell of surprise, followed by a thud. “At long last.”

         I dodge an incoming laser, kicking the offending soldier into a tree. Five more are advancing even if they can’t see me, and I hurry forwards to slam a gun out of one of the soldiers’ hands, using it to open fire on the others. An explosion rocks the ground beneath my feet, and I use the gun to clobber a nearby soldier.

        “‘At long last’ is lasting a little long, boys,” Natasha chips in over the comms.

        “Yeah, I think we lost the element of surprise,” Clint replies. The gun clicks when I next attempt to shoot so I settle for kicking the soldier I’m aiming at in the chest.

        “Wait a second,” Tony protests. “No one else is going to deal with the fact that Cap just said ‘language’?”

        “Ah, yes, the irony of Mr. I-Say-Fuck-Every-Third-Sentence saying ‘language’,” I agree with a shit-eating grin.

        “I know,” Steve sighs. And then a fucking motorcycle flies past my head, slamming into a Jeep.

        I yelp, swinging the gun like a baseball bat and braining another soldier. Mentally, I tally the motorcycle casualties up to a 25.

        “It just slipped out,” the supersoldier says.

        "Senior citizen, coming through," I say as Steve runs past, shield flying ahead of him.

        “We should get you two matching signs," Clint says thoughtfully. "SENIOR CITIZEN COMING THROUGH. MAKE WAY."

        "I prefer MOVE, I'M GAY, but MAKE WAY works too," I reply, not missing a beat. I hear Steve choke and Tony lets out a surprised little noise. There’s no reaction from Thor, but from what I can tell it seems like he’s too busy kicking ass to respond. Grinning sharply, I whip around and slam the gun into an approaching Jeep. It punches through the hood of the car, sending the entire vehicle up in smoke. 

        "Well, that's one way to come out to your coworkers," Nat says amusedly. 

        "Are we coworkers?" I muse, vaulting over the shoulders of a soldier and using the momentum to send him falling to the ground on his face. "I mean, not that I don't like you guys, it's just that if fighting whack jobs like Strucker is going to become a thing then I don't think I really want to do it."

        “It’s already a regular thing.” Natasha replies.

        “Sir, the city is taking fire,” JARVIS informs us. I stab a soldier in the gut, heading over towards a bunker that’s giving Steve some hell.

        “Well, we know Strucker’s not going to worry about civilian casualties,” Tony sighs. “Send in the Iron Legion.”

        “Can we please“ —I grunt, a laser having found its target and the momentum of it sending me stumbling back a few steps— “get an explosion over here? There’s a bunker and it’s annoying me.”

        “Overdone or medium rare?” Clint replies.

        “Overdone sounds about right,” I reply, latching onto a soldier and throwing him into the bunker.

        Something rams into me, sending me flying through the air. All the wind is forced from my lungs as my back collides with a tree, and I momentarily pity the soldiers I’d thrown or kicked into them. Then I hit the ground and decide that whoever did that deserved a reaper through the gut.

        The bunker gets off another few shots, and I hear Clint let out a groan of pain.

        “Clint!” Nat exclaims.

        Trusting that the redhead had our partner well under control, I clamber to my feet and launch off the ground. Then a silvery-blue streak sends Steve up into the air, but the supersoldier manages to twist and land on his feet. The streak is gone as fast as it had come, and I growl in frustration.

        “We have an enhanced in the field,” Steve says into the comm.

        “Clint’s hit!” Natasha calls. There are a few gunshots in the background. I land, bending my knees to absorb the impact, before I’m running on foot towards a small group of soldiers. “Somebody want to deal with that bunker?” Natasha adds, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

        There’s a roar not far off, followed by an explosion.

        “Thank you.”

        I whip into a roundhouse kick, catching a soldier across the face and sending them stumbling back. Withdrawing my leg quickly, I surge forwards with reapers outstretched, catching a few more soldiers across the arms. They bring their guns up just as I turn invisible, launching into a roundhouse kick that knocks the gun out of one of the soldiers’ hands. I put my reaper through their neck barely a moment after.

        “Stark, we really need to get inside,” Steve says.

        “I’m closing in,” Tony says. His words are followed by multiple explosions. “JARVIS, am I closing in? Do you see a power source for that shield?”

        “There’s a pathway below the north tower,”JARVIS replies dutifully. I launch myself up into the air, the absence of the blue streak setting me on edge.

        “Great, Tony says cheerfully, “I wanna poke it with something.”

        “Do you want me to poke anything?” I ask, readjusting my course to direct me towards the base.

        “Watch and learn, kiddos, Uncle Tony is going to show you how to use a missile,” Tony replies.

        I take that as a no and rebound off of a tree in order to slam into a Hydra soldier.

        “Drawbridge is down, people,” Tony says not a moment later.

        “Great,” I say brightly. “Hauling ass to help save the princess.”

        “Do you want me to plan a wedding?” Tony snarks.

        I grin. “Well, I’m not saying no, but is being wed to inanimate objects legal?”

        “I don’t think the sceptre quite falls under the inanimate objects category. And if it does, I’m sure exceptions can be made.”

        “Fantastic. A spring wedding has always appealed to me.”

        “Break out the wedding rings later,” Natasha cuts in. “Clint’s hit pretty bad, guys. We’re gonna need evac.”

        “I can get Barton to the jet,” Thor confirms. “The sooner we’re gone, the better. Captain, Stark and Lady Lynx secure the sceptre.”

        “Copy that,” Steve replies. “Lynx, care to give me a lift?”

        “Sure, Cap, I’d love to haul your heavy ass,” I reply good-naturedly as I swing around to retrace my path. I slam my reapers against my thighs. “Thor, care to give me a hint as to where the fuck you guys are?”

        “Looks like they’re lining up,” the demigod says in lieu of a confirmation.

        “Well, they’re excited,” Steve says dryly.

        Lightning flashes up ahead, and I grin. “I’ve got your position. Arms up, Cap.”

        “Find the sceptre,” Thor reminds us.

        “And for gosh sake, watch your language!” Tony chips in.

        A deep sigh on Steve’s part. “That’s not going away anytime soon.”

        Up ahead, I see a familiar blonde head, arms held up over his head. Swooping low, I snatch both hands in my own and propel myself up, taking Steve with me.

        “We’re locked down out here,” Natasha says over the comms.

        Steve shifts, pressing his ear to the inside of his bicep. “Then get to Banner, time for a lullaby.”

        We’re nearing the base by now, so I angle us down, dropping Steve a few feet off the ground and following him. “Stay close,” he instructs, eyes wary as he unslings his shield from his back.

        And this feels familiar, almost like…

_ The Soldier tips his head forwards, and I creep up to crouch in the rooftop beside him. His eyebrow cocks in question, and I nod. Small. Timid. _

_ “Свидетели должны быть уничтожены,” the Soldier murmurs. I nod again, this time rigidly. _

_ I have no memory of doing this before, but I don’t feel good about it. _

_ There are three children in the building below us. _

_ I am to kill them all. The Soldier will take of the adults. _

        “Cam?” Steve asks, shaking my shoulder. “Hey, Cam?”

        I startle, leaning back and knocking the supersoldier’s hand away without thinking.

        “Sorry,” I mutter, leaning forwards and pressing the tips of my fingers to my temples.

        Steve looks like he wants to say more, but we don’t have the time. I push ahead, batting away the headache forming behind my eyes as well as I can.

        There is a soldier up ahead, and I signal for Steve to wait around the corner. I charge forwards on silent feet, invisibility in full effect.

        The sound he makes when he crashes into the doors behind him is satisfying, the fact that the doors are pulled off of their hinges even more so.

        And behind the doors is one shell-shocked Baron Strucker.

        “Oooh, Cap, come see what I found!” I call, not taking my eyes off of Strucker. I slam my armguards onto my thighs. Strucker’s eyes are drawn to the reapers as they unfold, joints locking into place one by one.

        Steve rounds the corner, jogging up to stand by my side as he gives Strucker a once-over. “Baron Strucker,” he muses. “Hydra’s number one thug.”

        “Technically, I’m a thug for SHIELD,” Strucker shoots back, eyes darting about nervously.

        “Well then, technically you’re unemployed because we blew up an entire building,” I reply.

        “Where’s Loki’s sceptre?” Steve demands, walking around Strucker and putting the agent of Hydra’s back to the wall behind him. I’m a step behind the supersoldier, eyes focused on the stairwell below.

        “Don’t worry, I know when I’m beat,” Strucker says. “You’ll mention how I cooperated, I hope.”

        “Right under illegal human experimentation,” I chime in. “Fits right in with the image.”

        “How many are there?” Steve asks dangerously. A flicker of red on the shadows has my head snapping to the side, and I cry out a warning.

        Too late.

        Red energy throws Steve into me and down the stairwell, but I catch myself on the last few steps, using my momentum to propel myself up, where I twist and land in a crouch at the bottom. Charging right back up the stairs, I arrive just in time to see a girl dressed in red disappear through the doorway, doors surrounded with some sort of red energy drifting up to block the opening.

        “We have a second enhanced,” Steve says, having followed me up the stairs. “Female. Do not engage.” He turns a glare to Strucker. The damn bastard is grinning.

        “You’ll have to be faster than—“

        Steve’s shield hits the ground at Strucker’s feet, and his leg whips out almost faster than I can comprehend. The sound of the vibranium slamming into Strucker’s head a satisfying sound.

        Strucker crumples.

        “Guys, we’ve got Strucker,” I say into my comm, bending down to poke the Hydra thug.

        “Yeah, I got… something bigger,” Tony replies. A few beats of silence. I bend down and grab Strucker by the ankles, preparing to haul him down to the entrance of the base. “Thor, I’ve got eyes on the prize,” Tony informs us.

        “Get the prize the hell outta dodge and let’s fucking bounce,” I reply, beginning to drag Strucker’s unconscious body out of the room. “Steve, grab his arms.”

        “Aren’t you strong enough to do it yourself?” the blonde asks amusedly, bending down to lift Strucker’s arms anyways.

        “Do you expect me to do all the manual labor by myself?” I reply, grinning.

~~~~~

**Really quick translation this time. Again, Russian is not a language I can speak or write. If anyone has any corrections or insight to offer in the matter, I will gladly accept.**

**Witnesses are to be disposed of.**

~~~~~

        I stretch lazily, glaring at the gap between the ceiling of the Quinjet and the tips of my fingers. Thor and Steve have maybe half a foot between the ceiling and their heads, but for me it’s more like three feet.

        Clint is hooked up to a morphine drip, surprisingly (or maybe not; at this point, I’m 95% sure that Clint’s blood is comprised of more coffee and morphine than actual blood cells with how often he has the two in his system; he must’ve started to build some sort of tolerance) lucid for how much we’re giving him. Bruce is huddled on the floor of the jet, headphones clamped firmly over his ears and blanket draped over his shoulders. Natasha stands from where she’s co-piloting the jet, leaving Tony to his own devices as she weaves around everyone standing in the way of her and Bruce, stopping beside Clint for a few seconds.

        The doctor looks up when Nat stops in front of him, carefully removing his headphones.

        “Hey, the lullaby worked better than ever,” the redhead says. I cock an eyebrow at her. I know what she’s doing. Her eyes narrow, defiant. Trying to tell me, that, no, she isn’t still working on her little project of Get Banner to Trust Me So That I’m Not Scared He’s Going to Fly Off the Handle, and that, no, she’s not scared of the Hulk.

        “Just wasn’t expecting Code Green,” Bruce replies quietly.

        “If you hadn’t been there, there would’ve been double the casualties. One of my best friends would’ve been a treasured memory.”

        “You wish,” Clint says slowly. I nudge his stretcher with my hip, carefully cleaning my armguards.

        “You know, sometimes exactly what I want to hear isn’t exactly what I want to hear,” Bruce says.

        “How long before you trust me?” Natasha asks, and, wow, that was straightforward. Well. Actually, not really, because Clint and I both know that there’s something else she doesn’t want to admit. That’s how Nat plays. Vulnerability used to disguise vulnerability.

        “It not you I don’t trust,” Bruce says, a touch of sadness to his voice.

        “Thor, report on the Hulk?” Nat requests, looking down at her feet for a few moments.

        “The gates of Hell are filled with the screams of his victims!” Thor replies jovially. Behind him, Steve purses his lips and semi-squints up at the ceiling of the Quinjet, hands on his hips. He looks at the wall, shaking his head.

        Bruce puts his head in his hands and Natasha doesn’t even need to sigh, looking back down at the floor. I choke on my laughter, nearly dropping the armguard.

        “Uh, but not the screams of the dead, of course,” Thor says quickly. “No, no, uh… wounded screams, mainly whimpering, a great deal of complaining and tales of sprained deltoids and—and, uh—and gout.”

_ Smooth like crunchy peanut butter. _

        I set my armguard down.

        “Hey, Banner?” Tony calls from the pilot’s seat. “Dr. Cho is on her way in from Seoul, is it okay if she sets up in her lab?”

        “Uh, yeah, she knows her way around,” Bruce replies tiredly, seeming to shrink in on himself.

        “Thanks.” The billionaire turns back to face out the glass cockpit. “Tell her to prep everything, Barton’s gonna need the full treatment.”

        “Very good, sir.”

        “Man, that sounds optimistic,” Clint groans.

        “If you’re gonna say things like ‘man’, you’ve gotta sound like you’ve been smoking pot for the last 24 hours,” I say with a smirk. “Morphine doesn’t count.”

        “Hey, hey, I created that rule!” the archer protests. “You can’t do that.”

        “JARVIS, take the wheel,” I hear Tony instruct.

        “Yes, sir. Approach vector is locked.”

        Tony stands, moving over to the seats of the Quinjet where the sceptre is laid out. I know that Natasha has moved to place herself in a position where Clint won't be able to see it, because I have too.

        “It feels good, yeah?” I hear Tony say. It’s not quite loud enough for normal people to hear, but again, enhanced hearing. “I mean, you’ve been after this thing since SHIELD collapsed.” Ah. So he’s talking to Thor. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed our little raiding parties, but…”

        “No, but this… this brings it to a close,” Thor replies.

        “As soon as we find out what else this has been used for,” Steve cuts in grimly. “I don’t just mean weapons. Since when is Strucker capable of human enhancement?”

        “Banner and I’ll give it the once before it goes back to Asgard,” Tony suggests. “Is that cool with you?”

        There’s no audible response from either blonde, but I’m sure that one of them nods their head because no argument breaks out.

        “I mean, just a few days until the farewell party,” Tony continues. “You’re staying, right?”

        “Yes, yes, of course,” Thor agrees readily. “A victory should be honoured with revels.”

        “Yeah. Who doesn’t love revels. Captain.”

        I can hear it. The hope in Tony’s voice. Also the tone that says ‘don’t-tell-me-what-I’m-doing-is-irresponsible-because-if-you-do-I’m-going-to-do-it-anyways’. But mostly the former.

        “Hopefully this puts an end to the Chitauri and Hydra, so.” The supersoldier pauses. “Yes, revels.”

~~~~~

        The Quinjet lands, and before I can sneak off, medical grabs me and takes me in for inspection. I make a face at Steve as I’m dragged off, because, seriously? I’m not the only one who hides injuries. Then again, the former SHIELD medics do know me better than Steve, even if it has been a few years.

        Once I’m cleared (aka, once I’ve sat through a checkup and escaped into the vents), I make my way into Bruce’s lab where Nat, Bruce and Dr. Cho are all positioned around Clint, who’s lying on a table with a sort of arch over his torso, shirt pulled up to reveal the laser wound.

        Dropping from the vents earns me a disappointed look from Cho, which I easily ignore, pulling up a chair so that I’m seated at Clint’s side.

        “You sure he’s going to be okay?” Nat asks Dr. Cho, sitting back in her chair as a small blue light begins to scan Clint’s wound. “Pretending to need this guy really brings the team together.”

        It’s there for a second, gone as fast as it had come, but it’s there. Hurt. Doubt, in Clint’s eyes. Doubt that he actually is worth the trouble of being on the team.

        I reach up and squeeze his hand, smiling.

        “There’s no possibility of deterioration,” Dr. Cho answers confidently, pausing to press a few buttons on a panel connected to the arch about Clint. “The nano-molecular functionality is instantaneous. His cells don’t know they’re bonding with simulacrum.”

        “She’s creating tissue,” Bruce clears up in an awed sort of tone.

        “If you brought him to my lab, the regeneration Cradle could do this in twenty minutes.”

        “Oh, he’s flatlinining,” a familiar voice says. “Call it. Time?”

        “No, no, no. I’m going to live forever,” Clint quips. “I’m gonna be made of plastic.”

        Tony hums, handing Clint a smoothie before handing another one to me.

        “Here’s your beverage.”

        “You’ll be made of you, Mr. Barton,” Cho says. “Your own girlfriend won’t be able to tell the difference.”

        “Well, I don’t have a girlfriend,” Clint replies, grinning. There’s something sad to it, sorrow stemming from a wedding that should never have happened. And goddamn, I can’t remember a time when I’d wanted to kill someone that badly.

        “That, I can’t fix,” Cho says amusedly. She looks up at Tony, who has his own green smoothie in hand. “This is the next thing, Tony. Your clunky metal suits are going to be left in the dust.”

        “Well, that is exactly the plan,” the billionaire replies, side-eyeing Bruce. I narrow my eyes at the weight those words seem to carry with the two of them. “And, Helen, I expect to see you at the party on Saturday.”

        “Unlike you, I don’t have a lot of time for parties,” Cho replies imperiously. She pauses, looking down at the tablet in her hands. “Will… Thor be there?”

        “Thor would never miss a chance to get drunk,” I reply, hiding a smile by taking a sip of the smoothie.

        Not bad, Stark.

~~~~~

        The party is loud, air full of the chatter of people and laughter.

        The Avengers are scattered all around the room, but I’ve chosen to take up residence on the balcony, a half-full glass sitting beside my hand.

        A presence at my arm has me looking up.

        “Hey, Clint,” I say, grinning up at the blonde archer. “How’s the side?”

        “Peachy,” he replies, taking a seat across from me. “Why aren’t you downstairs?”

        I shrug, refusing to make eye contact. “There’s a lot of people down there.”

        “You should be out there. Have fun.”

        “And waste all this alcohol?” I ask, gesturing to the glass that we both know is water.

        Clint’s mouth curves up into a half smile. “Kate says to tell you that Lucky said hi.”

        Translation: Laura and the kids say hi. Kate does too.

        I hum. “Doesn’t she have a girlfriend now?”

        “Who, Lucky?” Clint asks, grinning.

        “Yes, the male dog who I refer to as a she,” I deadpan. “Her name’s patriotic, isn’t it? Starts with an A.”

        “America,” Clint supplies helpfully. 

        I smile. “She could give Steve a run for his money.”

        “May the dominant patriot emerge with even more righteous patriotism,” Clint intones.

        We both laugh.

        “Hey, you two,” a voice says, smile in their words. “You look lonely.”

        “Aw, it’s not that sad,” Clint replies, letting his head loll back to look at Nat.

        “It is, and you both know it,” the redhead replies, perching on the arm of the chair that I’m sitting on. “Everyone who’s not an Avenger or an associate is clearing out in a few minutes. You might want to consider coming down.”

        “Is there any alcohol?” Clint asks, wiggling his empty bottle of beer.

        “Plenty.”

        The archer’s face twists up into something unidentifiable. “Depends on how drunk everyone is.”

        “We’re Avengers,” Nat says, rolling her eyes. It’s purely for show, because we both know what this is about. “They’re just buzzed.” There’s a small battle going on behind Clint’s eyes, his brain telling him tha ‘buzzed’ is bad, and that he shouldn’t be down there, his heart telling him that ‘yes, they’re friends, be with them’.

        “Sounds like fun,” the archer finally says, pushing himself up from his chair. “I’ll see you both down there.”

        He ambles away, hands shoved into the pockets of the leather jacket he’s wearing tonight. I glance up at Nat.

        “He’s getting better, isn’t he?” I ask. Because Natasha had always known what to do. Well. Almost always. The redhead’s face is unreadable now, watching the blonde disappear down the stairs, whistling casually.

        “It looks like it,” she finally says. “But I can’t be sure if that’s actually true.”

        “Well, he doesn’t wake up every morning screaming,” I offer, reaching for the glass of water.

        “Neither do I,” Natasha points out.

        I frown.

~~~~~

        “But it’s a trick!” Clint exclaims, seated beside Maria Hill on the ground in front of the white sofa that Nat is perched upon, talking with Bruce in an armchair near the end of the couch. Helen Cho is watching amusedly from her own armchair, closer to the other couch across from the first, beside Thor. Thor is sitting next to Steve, who’s sitting nearest to Tony, the latter of which is balanced on the edge of a coffee table adjacent to another in the middle. I’d taken it upon myself to balance on the back of the couch that Nat is sitting on, one wrong move shy of either tumbling backwards and hitting the floor or falling forwards and hitting Clint and Maria.

        “Oh, no,” Thor says, grinning. Clint twirls a pair of drumsticks that he’d acquired at some point during the time it had taken the other guests to clear out. “It’s much more than that.”

        “”Whosoever be he worthy shall haveth the power!”” Clint mocks, deepening his voice and making his voice grander. “Whatever, man! It’s a trick!”

        “Well please, be my guest,” Thor replies, gesturing to his hammer, on the end of the coffee table separating him and Clint.

        Clint pauses, looking around, unsure.

        “Come on,” Tony stage-calls.

        “Really?” Clint asks, looking for the catch.

        “Yeah!” Thor says, gesturing for Clint to get up.

        The archer shakes his head, but pushes himself to his feet all the same.

        “Oh, this is gonna be beautiful,” I hear Rhodey whisper to Tony.

        “Clint, you’ve had a tough week, we won’t hold it against you if you can’t get it up,” Tony calls. Everyone laughs, and I grin as I tip forwards and fall onto the couch, narrowly avoiding hitting Maria’s head.

        “You know I’ve seen this before, right?” Clint says, walking around to stand in front of the hammer and transferring his drumsticks to his right hand. Gripping the handle of the hammer, I can see his whole body tense up as he attempts to pull the hammer away from the table. It doesn’t give. Frowning, the blonde tries again. Still no momvement on Mjölnr’s part. Clint gives up, taking a step back and admitting defeat. “I still don’t know how you do it,” he says to Thor, shaking his head with a grin.

        “Smell the silent judgement?” Tony ribs.

        “Please, Stark, by all means,” Clint retorts, still smiling.

        Tony rises to his feet.

        “Oh, here we go,” Nat mumbles into her drink.

        “Uh oh,” I hear Rhodey say.

        “Never one to shrink from an honest challenge,” Tony says.

        “Get after it,” Clint complains, shifting to make himself more comfortable.

        “Here we go,” Nat repeats.

        “It’s physics,” Tony says arrogantly, putting his hand through the leather strap at the end of the hammer’s handle. He turns to Thor. “Right, so, if I lift it, I then rule Asgard?”

        “Yes, of course,” Thor replies in the tone of a person who has a sure chance at victory.

        “I will be re-instituting Prima Nocta,” Tony declares, putting one foot up on the coffee table and using his other hand to grasp the other half of Mjölnr. Like Clint, his entire body tenses up as he pulls.

        Nothing.

        His second attempt yields nothing, and the billionaire steps back from the hammer.

        “I’ll be right back,” he declares, turning and walking out of the room. Re-entering not a minute later, this time without his suit jacket and with an Iron Man gauntlet, Tony makes a third attempt.

        When that does nothing, Rhodey volunteers to help, getting up to grab his own gauntlet.

        “Are you even pulling?” the former colonel asks, looking down at Tony whose gauntlet is attached to the lower half.

        “Are you on my team?” he retorts.

        “Just represent! Pull!”

        “Alright, let’s go!” The jets on both of their gauntlets fire up as both pull with all their might, but nothing happens.

        Admitting defeat, they both pull away to let Bruce try his hand.

        Bracing both feet on the table, the doctor uses two hands to try and pull the hammer from the table. His growls of frustration grow into mock-roars, and he soon leaps off the table doing his best Hulk impression.

        He’s met with silence.

        Nat grins, and it’s flirty and so Not-Nat that it’s suspicious. A small seed of worry plants itself in my gut.

        Bruce shrugs ruefully, ceding his position to Steve.

        “Let’s go, Steve, no pressure,” Tony calls.

        “Come on, Cap,” Rhodey concurs.

        I prop myself up on one arm to watch this one, because if any of us would ever be able to lift this hammer, it would be Steve.

        Steve’s first attempt yields nothing but a small squeak, presumably  from the table (and I have to ask what the fuck Tony made it out of, because it’s holding up Mjölnr and supported half of the Avengers without tipping over), but other than that, nothing.

        He tries again.

        Admits defeat with a smile on his face and sits back down.

        “Widow?” Bruce asks, looking at Nat with a grin.

        “Oh, no no,” Nat says hastily. “That’s not a question I need answered.” She takes a sip of her beer.

        “All deference to the man who wouldn’t be king, but it’s rigged!” Tony declares.

        “You bet your ass,” Clint agrees, and I know that he’s thinking about years of rigged carnival games.

        “Steve, he said a bad language word,” Maria says quickly, pointing her own beer at Clint.

        “Did you tell everyone about that?” Steve asks Tony exasperatedly.

        “The handle’s imprinted, right?” Tony asks, ignoring Steve’s question. “Like a security code. “Whosoever is carrying Thor’s fingerprints” is, I think, the literal translation?”

        Thor laughs. “Yes, well, that’s a very, very interesting theory. But Lady Lynx has yet to test it.”

        I blanch, holding my hands up in front of me. “Ah, gonna stop you right there. I didn’t bring my dampeners and don’t want to fuck up your magic hammer.”

        “Fear not, Lady Lynx, the Allfather himself blessed Mjölnr,” Thor says confidently.

        And even without any drinks, maybe the party’s atmosphere is affecting me. That’s probably the only reason I stand up, stepping over Clint and Maria in order to get to Mjölnr. Grinning good-naturedly, I place a hand on the handle. It’s warm, thrumming with something otherworldly. But when I pull, the thrumming stops and the handle goes cold as I stumble backwards, Mjölnr in hand.

        I wasn’t expecting the hammer to come off the table. Nobody was.

        There’s dead silence as I regain my balance to stare at the hammer in my hand.

        It’s broken when I drop it abruptly, the loud thud snapping everyone out of their shock. Swallowing harshly, I force a fake smile onto my face. “It’s probably because of my powers,” I suggest shakily. “Magic hammer, so I probably negated the spell on it. Just because I can pick it up doesn’t mean that I’m worthy.”

        A loud screech rips through the room, and everyone hunches over, hands going for their ears. Clint jerks violently, hands coming up and removing his hearing aids. I swear, stumbling back a step and clamping both hands over my own, the noise—whatever it was—slamming into my enhanced hearing like a freight train.

        “Worthy,” a gravelly voice says from behind. Everyone present turns around, greeted by the sight of a dilapidated, hobbling Iron Legionaire. “No,” the thing rasps. “How could you be worthy? You’re all killers,” the robot says, waving an arm that’s stuck in a ninety degree angle.

        “Stark,” Steve says quietly.

        “JARVIS,” Tony hisses at his Starkphone.

        “I’m sorry, I was asleep,” the robot says. “Or… I was a dream.”

        “Reboot, Legionaire OS, we got a buggy suit,” Tony mutteres, tapping his phone. 

        “There was a terrible noise,” the robot says, agitated distress working it’s way into its tone. “And I was tangled in… in… strings. I had to kill the other guy. He was a good guy.”

        “You killed someone?” Steve demands, concern seeping into his voice.

        “Wouldn’t have been my first call,” the robot admits. “But, down in the real world we’re faced with ugly choices.”

        “Who sent you?” Thor asks.

        Something crackles, then Tony’s voice plays out over the room.

_ “I see a suit of armor around the world.” _

        “Ultron,” Bruce breathes.

        “In the flesh,” the robot—Ultron—replies. He—because as far as I can tell, the robot is a he—stops, turns to the side. “Or, no, not yet. Not this… chrysalis. But I’m ready. I’m on a mission.”

        “What mission?” Nat asks quietly. My hands drop to my waist, where my whip has been tucked around my hips the entire night.

        “Peace in our time.” My hand grips the handle.

        The walls on either side of Ultron explode, Iron Legionaires shooting out of the two holes they’d made in the walls.

        Everyone scatters.

        The first one heads directly for Steve, standing on the far side of the coffee table Mjölnr was resting on. Thor has already grabbed his hammer, so Steve kicks it up to intercept the robot. It changes direction at the last minute, going up and pushing the table down, colliding with Steve. The blonde falls to the ground, and I launch myself into the air after the Legionaire. A few gunshots go off, one of them whizzing dangerously close to my ear.

        I swear, veering to the left as the Legionaire paints an erratic path across the ceiling. Down below, Thor sends a Legionaire flying through the air past me, and I barely manage to avoid being hit.

        With the force the Legionaire hits the wall with, I don’t think I would’ve wanted to.

        The Legionaire I’m chasing, momentarily distracted by the demise of one of its comrades, gives me the opening to tackle it out of the air.

        The light behind its eyes dies, and I quickly rip out all of the exposed wiring.

        Praying that that’s enough, I let go of the Legionaire just as another one falls upon me from up above.

        We both crash to the ground, and the Legionaire rears back, arm rising to shoot me in the face, one of its hands gripping the front of my jacket, but not quite touching bare skin.

        Mjölnr whizzes by, taking the head off of the Legionaire as it does.

        Shoving the remaining metal and sparking wires off of my, I jump to my feet and snag a Legionaire just before it takes flight. Digging my heels in, I spin around like I did less than a week before, releasing the Legionaire at the pinnacle of its arc and sending it flying out the window.

        “We are here to help,” a Legionaire says. I put my hand through it’s face, withdrawing my fist with a handful of wires buzzing against my skin.

        “Cam, throw me a bone!” Tony calls. Running footsteps are heard behind me, and I turn just in time to grab Tony by the arm, spinning once before flinging him up.

        For a moment, he’s suspended there, weightless.

        Then an Iron Legionaire swoops in to kill him and he latches onto the thing’s back.

        Deciding to let the philanthropist deal with that himself, I uncoil my whip and use it to snag the nearest Legionaire, trapping its arms at its side and reeling it in so I can kick it into the wall.

        A few more gunshots go off, and I duck on instinct. Tony and the Legionaire he was piggybacking thud to the floor.

        “Fucking hell, birdbrain!” I yell, knocking the arm of a Legionaire away as it takes aim at Clint, who’s running across the room without any sort of protection or weapon. But I see what he’s going for.

        “Cap!” the archer yells from the other side of the room. He doesn’t wait for an answer he won’t hear before throwing the shield. Steve turns in a fluid motion, jumping as he does, arm extending to catch his shield. At the end of his turn, he flings the shield and it slams into the very last Legionaire.

        Natasha and Bruce hurry down the stairs leading to the balcony, and Clint hurries over to the couches, pulling his hearing aids from his pocket. Everyone regroups to regard the original Legionaire with weapons raised and wary eyes.

        “That was dramatic!” Ultron says. “I’m sorry, I know you mean well. You just didn’t think it through. You want to protect the world, but you don’t want it to change. How is humanity saved if it’s not allowed to… evolve.”

        Ultron bends, hand reaching out, and I raise my whip, but he’s only reaching for the top half of a nearby Legionaire. “With these? These puppets? Theees only one path to peace. The Avengers’ extinction.”

        Mjölnr flies forwards, striking true and smashing Ultron to pieces.

        “I had strings, but now I’m free,” the Legionaire grinds out. “There are no strings on me, no strings on me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been planning a coming out scene for Cam ever since I first created her character. I thought that maybe the scene in Chapter 8 (where Cam pretends to be dating a girl to avoid the STRIKE team) was enough, but decided it was flexible and could be interpreted differently. Then I thought about Cam’s attitude about being ‘different’. So, here’s Cam expressing that she’s a flaming homosexual through a joke. Another note about Cam’s sexuality: she’s from the ‘40s. She’s only got a vague understanding of ‘queer’ (and I apologize if that word is offensive to some people; I, as a member of the LGBTQ+ community, never found it insulting) even if she’s been in the 21st century for almost thirteen years. SHIELD had her running around on missions and training, so she never really had free time. When she hit puberty, people who were invested in Cam having a semi-childhood started asking her teasing questions about boys. She was confused as fuck, for lack of words. In the end, she made her peace with it, and doesn’t really see the need, nor have the time, to dwell on it even further. Even having been exposed to people like Clint (who I headcanon bisexual) and Nat (aro ace), she’s never needed a label to feel comfortable about how she’s not strictly attracted to the opposite gender.


	16. Alcohol Was Needed, But Not Provided, and For Our Troubles We Get Shot At

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, my chapter naming skills have returned. No, that does not make them any less lame.

         “All our work is gone,” Bruce says tiredly, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “Ultron cleared out, used the internet as an escape hatch.”

         Natasha turns away from her own computer. “He’s been in everything,” she says matter-of-factly, like it’s no big deal. “Files, surveillance. Probably knows more about us than we know about each other.”

         Clint’s expression tightens from where he’s leaned up against the railing of the staircase leading into the lab, arms propped up on the railing.

         “He’s in your files, he’s in the internet,” Rhodey says, producing the image of a mental checklist. “What if he decides to access something a little more exciting?”

         “Nuclear codes,” Maria says grimly, seated on a stool and equipped with tweezers as she pulls shards of glass out of the soles of her feet.

         “Nuclear codes,” Rhodey agrees, moving towards the center of the room. “Look, we need to make some calls, assuming we still can.”

         “Nukes?” Nat asks, frowning. “He said he wanted us dead.”

         “Not dead, exactly,” I point out, twirling a pen around like a drumstick. I’m perched on one of the lab tables, which is probably neither sanitary or safe, but I just kicked robot ass, so I think everyone will let it slide. “He took it to the next level. Said he wanted us extinct.”

         “He also said he killed somebody,” Clint adds.

         “But there wasn’t anyone else in the building,” Maria points out.

         “Yes there was.”

         And the way that Tony says it is sad, almost, resigned. He points his StarkPhone at the nearest patch of empty floor, and a 3D schematic of wrecked code pops up.

         I freeze.

         “This is insane,” Bruce mutters, walking over to stand just at the edge of the 3D schematic of what used to be JARVIS.

         “JARVIS was the first line of defense,” Steve reasons. “He would’ve shut Ultron down, it makes sense.”

         “No, Ultron could’ve assimilated JARVIS,” Bruce says, shaking his head. “This isn’t strategy, this is… rage.”

         A thud follows the doctor’s words, and then a certain muscled blonde throws the doors to the lab open, striding straight to Tony and gripping him by the throat.

         “Woah, woah, woah!” Clint exclaims. “It’s going around.”

         “Come on,” Tony chokes out, hands scrabbling at Thor’s own. “Use your words, buddy.”

         “I have more than enough words to describe you, Stark,” Thor snarls, face contorted into a feral sort of rage.

         “Thor!” Steve says in his Captain voice. “The Legionaire.”

         The demigod drops Tony, turning to face the supersoldier.

         “Trail went cold about a hundred miles out, but it’s headed north and it has the sceptre,” Thor recounts. He throws a nasty look at Tony. “Now we have to retrieve it, again.”

         “The genie’s out of that bottle,” Natasha quips bitterly. “Clear and present is Ultron.”

         “I don’t understand,” Dr. Cho says, speaking up for the first time in a while. “You built this program. Why is it trying to kill us?”

         A pause, in whic everyone looks to Tony, whose braced his hands against a nearby table and hunched over a bit, and Bruce, standing at the billionaire’s side. And then Tony’s shoulders begin to shake as small, bitter chuckles leave his mouth. Bruce’s eyes widen, and he tries to shake his head subtly at Tony, but the genius takes no heed of the doctor’s warnings.

         “You think this is funny?” Thor half-roars, taking a few threatening steps towards Tony.

         “No,” the genius replies, shaking his head and still fucking _chuckling_ as he turns around to face the room at large. “It’s probably not, right? Is this very terrible? Is it so—is it so—it is. It’s so terrible.”

         “This could’ve been avoided if you hadn’t played with something you don’t understand,” Thor snaps, waving a hand around angrily.

         “No, I’m sorry,” Tony says, sobering up all of a sudden and pushing off the desk to advance. “I’m sorry. It is funny. It’s a hoot that you don’t get why we need this.”

         “Tony, maybe this might night be the time to—“

         The philanthropist rounds on Bruce, eyes flashing. “That’s it?” he demands. “You just roll over, show your belly, every time somebody snarls.”

         “Only when I’ve created a murder bot,” Bruce counters calmly.

         “We didn’t,” Tony snaps, backing up a bit. “We weren’t even close.” He turns to everyone in the room. “Were we close to an interface?”

         “Well, you did something right,” Steve retorts, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “And you did it right here. The Avengers were supposed to be different than SHIELD.”

         “Anybody remember when I carried a nuke through a wormhole?” Tony asks, moving to stand in the center of the room as he points up.

         I shake my head dutifully.

         “No, it’s never come up,” Rhodey says, just loud for everyone to hear.

         “Saved New York?” Tony pushes, moving back to where he had started.

         “Never heard of that,” Rhodey replies.

         “Recall that?” Tony demands. “A hostile alien army dame charging through a hole in space. We’re standing three hundred feet below it. We’re the Avengers.”

         He walks over the Steve, getting right up in his face.

         “We’re the Avengers,” the genius says. “We can bust arms dealers all the live long day, but that up there? That’s… that’s the end game.”

         Tony retreats.

         “How were you guys planning on beating that?”

         “Through the sheer power of ass-kickery,” I reply simply, tapping the pen against the table.

         “Together,” Steve corrects, posture tense and defensive.

         “We’ll lose,” Tony challenges.

         “Then we’ll do that together, too,” Steve rebukes, unwavering.

         Their eyes remain locked for a few beats more, and then Tony turns away. Steve does too, talking to the room at large.

         “Thor’s right,” the supersoldier says. “Ultron’s calling us out. And I’d like to find him before he’s ready for us. The world’s a big place. Let’s start making it smaller.”

~~~~~

         Despite Steve and Tony’s big talk, nothing really _happens._ I shower and half change into my combat outfit, entire body wired to run at a moment’s notice. Reading over the meagre files we have on the two enhanced, I carefully think about ways to counteract their powers.

         The first Maximoff, Pietro, was hard. Staying off the ground seemed like the most logical option, although if the kid (and I shouldn’t be calling him that, because I’m only twenty-one, but damn, I have never felt so fucking old) could run on walls we might have a problem.

         On the other hand, Wanda Maximoff is an easy fix. If her mind fuckery is linked to the sceptre, there’s a high likelihood her mojo won’t to jackshit to me. Still, might do me some good to stay away from her. What does intrigue me, however, is if I touched either of the Maximoffs, would their powers disappear? Or was it different, now that the energy from the sceptre was a part of them, not the weapon itself?

         There’s a knock on the door of my room not a moment after I’d thought that. Standing up and stretching, I open the door and see Clint standing outside with a phone in hand.

         “Katie-Kat wanted to talk to you,” he explains, holding out the phone.

         I accept it, stepping out into the hallway.

         “Hey, Kate,” I say tiredly. “Anything world-shattering happen?”

         “The kids are actual nightmares, I swear,” Clint’s prótegé complains. “No one should have that much energy at two in the morning.”

         “Hey, hey, hey, I’m one of those people,” I protest. It’s safe to talk about ‘the kids’ over the phone, even now, with Ultron. ‘The kids’ is vague, and doesn’t flesh out any details about the brats. They’d be safe if Ultron ever overheard this conversation.

         A snort.

         “When you’re being shot at, sure. Otherwise you sleep until it’s night and stay up when everyone’s asleep.”

         “I’ll have you know I’m an actual adult,” I say mock-seriously. “I can even drink legally now. It’s awesome.”

         “Tell me you’re an actual adult when you wake up before noon without somebody shooting at you,” Kate replies. A pause. “Lucky wants to see you. I think he’s lonely.”

         Translation: Laura wants to check up with Clint and me.

         “Aww,” I coo. “Tell him I’ll swing by sometime this week with those special treats he likes.”

         Tell Laura that she might have some visitors.

         “I’m sure he’ll love those,” Kate replies. “Hey, give me Clint. I heard about the stupid stunt he pulled, getting hit by a laser last mission. I hope he realises you’re the one who doesn’t deal with the effects of that shit.”

         “You know, the worst part about it is that I think he does know, just doesn’t care,” I reply. “Charges in like a dumbass.”

         “Hey, you’re talking about me now,” Clint says pouting. “C’mon, I know Katie-Kat wants to talk to me.”

         I relent, relinquishing the phone to the archer as Steve and Maria round the corner.

         “That’s a negative,” Clint is saying. “I answer to you. Yes, ma’am.”

         “Barton—er, Clint, Cam,” Steve calls, approaching. “We might have something.”

         “Gotta go,” Clint tells Kate, hanging up and slipping his phone onto his pocket.

         “Who was that?” Steve asks curiously.

         “Girlfriend,” Clint replies, straight-faced. My jaw tightens in an attempt to keep the laughter from spilling out.

~~~~~

         The rest of the team is rounded up and directed to the lab, where Nat sits in front of a computer. We all crowd around her, facing Steve who’s standing a bit to the side of the computer. He hands a StarkPad to Thor, whose face grows dark when he sees whatever’s on it.

         “What’s this?” Tony asks, sauntering over to Thor. The demigod slams the StarkPad into the genius’ chest, turning away. I hop slightly in attempt to look over his shoulder, floating a few inches off of the ground. The image on the StarkPad has me raising an eyebrow.

         “A message,” Steve says grimly. “Ultron killed Strucker.”

         “And he did a Banksy at the crime scene, just for us,” Tony quips. I drop down to the floor, moving aside in order to allow Bruce a better view.

         “This is a smokescreen,” Natasha says, brow furrowing. “Why send a message when you’ve just given a speech?”

         “Strucker knew something that Ultron wanted us to miss,” Steve replies simply.

         Nat turns back to the computer, fingers flying across the keys. “Yeah, I bet he… “ She pauses, before sitting back to reveal the standard SHIELD ‘RECORD DELETED’ in place of any useful information. “Yep,” the redhead says grimly. “Everything we had on Strucker has been erased.”

         A pause.

         “Not everything,” Tony says.

~~~~~

         It takes all seven of us Avengers twenty minutes to cart up every single box of physical files we have on Strucker and his time in Hydra. Thanks to SHIELD’s amazing forethought, none of the boxes are labelled, resulting in thirty minutes spent sorting the boxes into different piles. Only then can we focus on one particular category.

         “Known associates,” Steve mutters. His face twists up in disgust not a moment later. “Well, Strucker had a lot of friends.”

         “Nice to know they’re all as terrible as he is,” I mutter, closing a file and tossing it into the discard pile.

         “Wait,” Tony says, leaning over to look at a file Bruce is holding. “I know that guy.”

         Bruce looks up with a mildly surprised expression, but hands the file over to Tony. “From back in the day,” the genius elaborates, a bitter sort of aftertaste to his tone. Clint wanders over from the other side of the room, standing between Steve and Tony. “He operates off the African coast, black market arms.”

         He offers the file back to Bruce, but Thor intercepts it. “There are conventions, alright?” Tony says defensively upon seeing Steve’s Disappointed Mom Look. “You meet people. I didn’t sell him anything. He was talking about finding something new, a game changer. It was all very “Ahab.””

         “This,” Thor mutters, finger resting on top of a spot on the man’s—Ulysses Klaue, according to the bold black heading on the file—neck.

         “Uh, it’s a tattoo,” Tony says distractedly. “I don’t think he had it—“

         “No, those are tattoos,” Thor says, shaking his head. “This is a brand.”

         I brace my hands against the table, using it as an anchor for me to lift myself off the ground and tip forwards in order to see what the others are talking about. It’s red, burnt into the skin, a box with tapered points and two swirling crescents facing in opposite directions on each side.

         “Anyone recognize it?” I ask, frowning.

         Negative answers from everyone.

         “We could put it through the old SHIELD database,” Clint suggests, leaning forwards. “It might not work as well as it would’ve back in the day, but I’m sure it’s at least functioning.”

         “Relatable,” I mumble under my breath.

         Natasha coughs off to my left, hand coming up to hide her mouth.

         “Good idea,” Bruce says, reaching across the table to grab the file. Hooking one foot around the leg of his chair, the doctor moves over to a computer tucked into the corner of the room. A five-second search later, and Bruce is peering at the screen intently. “Oh, yeah,” the doctor says. “It’s a word in an African dialect meaning thief, in a much less friendly way.”

         “What dialect?” Steve asks, hands resting on his hips. Bruce glances back at the computer.

         “Wakanada?” he says, more of a question than anything. He leans closer. “Wa… Wa-Wakanda.”

         Steve and Tony both look at each other, expressions grim. “If this guy got out of Wakanda with some of their trade goods… “ Tony trails off, letting the silence speak for itself. Whatever goods Wakanda trades, they’re either dangerous or important (although, strictly speaking, both words were interchangeable).

         “I thought your father said he got the last of it?” Steve replies, a crease forming in between his eyebrows.

         “I don’t follow,” Bruce says, shaking his head. “What comes out of Wakanda?”

         Tony and Steve both turn to look at an inconspicuous, oversized, red, white and blue frisbee propped up against the wall.

         “The strongest metal on earth,” Tony says, all lightheartedness void from his tone.

         “Where is this guy now?” Steve asks.

~~~~~

         After a quick explanation, everyone splits up to gather gear. We’re all piling into the Quinjet in record timing, one after the other. Steve, I notice, took the time to pull Sam aside and have a quick, hurried conversation with the other man. There’s no doubt in my mind about what they’re talking about. _Who_ they’re talking about.

         I heard the Winter Soldier—or whatever he is now—had been hanging around the Bahamas. Sam’s lucky ass might even have time to stop by the beach once the trail runs cold.

         Clint has a sleeveless shirt on, but his Kevlar is draped over one arm, quiver strap clamped between his teeth and bow tucked under one arm; Tony is pulling a suitcase version of his Iron Man suit; Steve is fully geared up, shield attached to his back; Natasha has two guns holstered at her hips, but I know that she has at least a dozen other weapons hidden on her person; Bruce is dressed as he always is, but I can see the nervous anticipation that comes with the uncertainty of a Code Green.

         Of course, Thor is Thor and is decked out in his battle armor anyways. I myself am half geared up, cargo jacket on, but whip hanging on my arm, knives clamped in my armpit and guns stacked and balanced precariously on the the other arm. My ammo has already been squirrelled away in the pockets of the cargo jacket, and as Tony readies the Quinjet for launch, I let my knives fall onto a seat, followed by my guns.

         Steve stands at the center of the Quinjet, hands braced on the low cross between a table and crates, looking expectant. Slowly, everyone begins to drift towards him, and once I join the group the supersoldier straightens up.

         “Our number one priority is stopping Ultron,” Steve says. “We can’t let him get away with that vibranium. B-Clint, find a perch you can use to watch everything. We don’t know what he’s going to bring besides the Maximoffs. Comms are for emergency use only, since we know that he can hack into them. I’m trusting you to take anything we don’t see out. Natasha, watch him. We don’t want anything to try sneaking up on him if Ultron tries to take his hearing aids out.”

         Clint’s face gets this pinched, pained look, but he doesn’t raise any objections. I know that he hates being what he sees as a liability to the team. It’s nothing he can help, but it’s definitely something he blames himself for. I want to say something, tell him that that’s not true, but the words get stuck in my throat as the archer nods.

         “Our next objective is to find out why Ultron wants the vibranium,” Steve is saying when I look back at him. “He’s not just taking it for fun. Tony, you’re our best bet. Get him talking. Try to stall for everyone to get into position. Banner, you stay in the jet. Klaue is hiding in a salvage yard; we don’t want something accidentally destroyed that brings the whole thing down.” Steve has gone full Captain America by now, posture military-rigid, hands behind his back and stance wide.

         Bruce nods his assent.

         “Thor, Cam, you’re with Tony and me. Our job is to back him up, and if it comes down to a fight you three are going to be aerial support. Tony will be looking after Ultron, but I want you two to take out anything else up in the air that Clint doesn’t get.”

         I salute.

~~~~~

         Tony sets the jet down on solid ground a quarter mile or so off from the salvage yard before assembling his Iron Man armor, meeting the rest of us outside the jet. Bidding farewell to Bruce, I kick off from the ground. An arrow arcs up not soon after, and I snatch it out of the air, yanking Clint along behind it. Tony lags behind with Steve, while Thor flies even with me, Natasha hanging onto his back.

         The look on her face warns everyone against mentioning her position.

         Nat and Clint are set down on a higher level than Tony, Steve, Thor and I enter through, and by the time we make it into the capsized ship Klaue is squatting in, they’re well out of sight.

         The acoustics of the ship are pretty good, and we hear Ultron right off the bat. Tipping my head to one side, I hold up four fingers.

         Four floors up.

         Steve nods, beckoning Thor after him as they disappear up a metal staircase.

         A tactical decision. Even if Thor could fly, the sound of his hammer whirring through the air would alert Ultron. It’s better if he moves on foot.

         Tony and I however, have no such setbacks, and we drift upwards lazily, keeping an eye out for Steve and Thor.

         All too soon, we’re drawing even with the fourth floor.

         “It’s a thing with me,” Ultron is saying, back turned to us. “Stark is—he’s a sickness!”

         “Ahh, Juniour,” Tony says, taking the initiative as Thor and Steve make it to the fourth floor. “You’re gonna break your old man’s heart.” The Iron Man suit changes directions as Ultron turns, landing on the catwalk in front of the demigod and supersoldier. I circle around overhead in lazy circles, tilted back casually with my hands resting on the guns at my hips.

         “If I have to,” Ultron says, now facing us completely. A blur of blue, and then the Maximoff twins appear at the robot’s side.

         “We don’t have to break anything,” Thor says in a valiant attempt at negotiation. I cross my arms so as to discreetly remove my dampening bracelets, slipping them into the pocket of my cargo jacket.

         “Clearly, you’ve never made an omelet,” Ultron quips.

         I glance down at Tony, and the Iron Man suit looks back up at me.

         “One second,” I say, showing Tony my index finger for emphasis.

         “One second,” the genius agrees, looking back at Ultron.

         “Ah, this is funny, Mr. Stark,” one of the Maximoff twins says, stepping forwards so that he’s in front of his sister. Pietro, I recall. “It’s what, comfortable? Like old times?”

         He glances down, and I follow his gaze to sets of missiles, lying in neat rows below. I’d passed them on my way up and given them no thought.

         The Iron Man mask shows so emotion.

         “This was never my life,” Tony says firmly.

         “You two can still walk away from this,” Steve cuts in, looking at the twins. His shield is held at his side, not yet pulled up in defense.

         “Oh, we will,” the other Maximoff twin says patronisingly. Her eyes are rimmed with a dark eyeshadow and the hard glint to them reminds me of a different set of determined eyes. Green ones set against caramel skin.

         “I know you’ve suffered—“

         “Ugh!” Ultron exclaims, cutting the supersoldier off. I narrow my eyes, leaning forwards a bit, because if Ultron truly had no doubt about the Maximoffs’ loyalty, he wouldn’t have cut Steve’s spiel off. “Captain America,” the robot continues. “God’s righteous man, pretending you could live without war.” If machines could sneer, Ultron was doing it. “I can’t physically throw up in my mouth, but…”

         “If you believe in peace, then let us keep it,” Thor jumps in.

         “I think you’re confusing peace with quiet,” Ultron snaps, advancing a few steps.

         “Yuh-huh,” Tony says flippantly. “What’s the vibranium for?”

         “I’m glad you asked that, because I wanted to take this time to explain my evil plan.”

         There is no warning when the hand that Ultron is gesturing with suddenly points towards Tony, an insubstantial, wispy sort of tractor beam yanking the billionaire towards him. Iron Legionaires drop from the catwalks above, and my foot lashes out to kick one towards the other end of the bridge. The Maximoff twin’s are gone in a flash of blue, and I growl. A metal fist barely misses my face, and I reel back to avoid the next hit. Below me, Tony is thrown back by a red beam emitting from Ultron’s hand.

         Ultron and Tony head up, and I’m forced down onto the catwalks to avoid being hit. Four Legionaires are on me as soon as I land, so I’m stuck on the ground. A blur of blue rushing by sends me flying back, toppling over the railing of the catwalk, and I swear as I regain my bearings in the air. The Legionaires follow me over the side, and I quickly unholster my guns to shoot two of them point blank between the eyes.

         Their remains crash to the ground below, and then two others shoot out too fast for me to shoot at.

         The first one I send the butt of my gun crashing through the top of its skull, and the second one I kick away. The force of it propels me through the air, my focus more on staying out of the way of everyone than keeping in place, and I yank my hand and the gun gripped in it out of the other Legionare’s skull.

         There’s a flash of red, and Steve goes flying back.

         Surging forwards, hands outstretched, I slam into the Legionaire, gun lodging in the curve of its throat, pushing it back into the railing of the catwalk, where it shatters from the force of the impact. Grinning ferociously, straps of my mask digging into my cheeks, I use the sudden stop to propel my body up and into a handstand, letting my body tip over. My feet hit the catwalk just as gunfire breaks out, and I swear, ducking on instinct.

         Bullets whizz out from all directions, but then there’s a soft _thwip_ , barely audible over the noise of the guns, and there’s an opening. Pushing off at full force, I rocket through the air, arms crossed in front of my face. My armguards slam into the gunman’s chest, and the reapers unsheathe in his chest. I’m in the one behind him in the space of a breath, knocking the gun out of their hands and slamming them against the railing. Just as I’m about to tip them over the edge, a voice rings out.

         “Cam!” a reproachful Captain America yells. “No killing if you can help it!”

         I swear viciously, but draw my elbow back and slam it into the other’s face hard enough to knock them out.

         “We can’t go anywhere,” I mumble under my breath. Releasing the slack body of the mercenary, I vault over the side and make a beeline for the catwalks opposite, hidden under a ledge that Clint might not be able to get without some wicked rebound shots. Bullets ping off of metal behind me. “Every time. Every single fucking time.”

         Mjölnr flies past me, and I lean back just in time to have it sail past the snout of my mask. A loud crash from above tells me that Ultron and Tony have taken their squabble outside.

         A few Legionaires have located me, and I quickly swing myself over the side of the catwalk, slowing my descent but letting myself land on the floor below.

         “Thor, status?” I hear Steve ask. A Legionaire drops from the catwalk above, but I send a knife through one of its eyes.

         No reply comes through that I can hear, and even if I know that my dampeners are off and my comms are down, a sick feeling crawls its way out of the dark recesses of my mind. Stomach clenching unpleasantly, I fly up to the catwalks, landing softly. The gunfire has been silenced, no more mercenaries left. I can hear scrambling feet below, most likely the last few that Klaue is sending up.

         All of a sudden, a silvery-blue blur flings me down the catwalk, and my head hits the wall hard. Groaning, I make to sit up, but then red clouds my vision. My eyes fly wide open, and my body lashes out on instinct. A whoosh of air, and my knife flies through the space where Wanda Maximoff had been.

         Paying no mind to the twins’ disappearance, I heave in a shaking breath and shake my head vigorously. The red doesn’t go away, simply warps and changes. The sound of my boots against the catwalk sounds like it’s coming from down a tunnel.

         Right. Mojo.

         The knife in my hand clatters to the floor as a searing pain erupts in my head. I double over, hands flying up to my head. As soon as the tips of my fingers make contact with my temples, the red dissipates, and the crushing pressure on my skull lessens. Letting out a heaving breath, I quickly straighten up, greeted only by silence.

         Everyone is gone.

         “C—Hawkeye?” I try. “Cap?” My voice echoes back at me. Heart beating up in my throat, I practically throw myself over the railing and fly up to the catwalk above me. I give a mental sigh of relief as I catch sight of Clint kneeling beside Nat.

         But Nat doesn’t look okay, eyes vacant and unseeing, even as I walk up to the two.

         Clint meets my eyes, but then pauses, tilting his head as if listening to someone.

         “Well, that’s not gonna happen,” Clint says, threading an arm under Nat’s and beginning to haul her to her feet. I hasten to assist. “Not for a while,” Clint adds. “The whole team is down, not counting Lynx and me, but neither of us can do anything against the Hulk. You got no back up here.”

         A pause, in which Clint’s face darkens. His attention shifts to me.

         “Fly Nat back to the Quinjet,” he instructs, ducking out from under the redhead’s arm. “I’ll locate the others. Come back for them.”

         “Fantastic,” I murmur, bending down to grab the back of Nat’s knees in order to sweep her into a bridal carry. “Hauling heavy asses back and forth. Sounds terrific.”

~~~~~

         By the time Tony carries Bruce back to the Quinjet, everyone has shaken themselves of the lingering effects of the Maximoff’s mind warp. Clint had given them a rundown on what Tony was off doing, setting a somber mood all around. Bruce himself is huddled on the floor, blanket drawn around his shoulders but entire body shivering. His bare chest is gleaming with sweat, and my heart hurts for him.

         Clint takes the wheel, lifting the jet off the ground gently and navigating us into cloud cover expertly.

         A video feed pops up on the dashboard, and Tony goes over to answer whoever it is.

         Maria.

         “The news is loving you guys,” the ex-lieutenant of SHIELD says. She sounds weary and worn out. “Nobody else is. There’s been no official call for Banner’s arrest, but it’s in the air.”

         Bruce’s shivering, if possible, increases tenfold.

         “Stark Relief Foundation?” Tony, I notice, it adamantly Not Looking at the screen.

         “Already on the scene. How’s the team?”

         Tony and I make eye contact, and I grimace. Steve is staring stoically at the wall, Thor is standing off to the side, hands rubbing together nervously. Nat is hunched over, eyes staring at me, unseeing, an eerie likeness to when she was under Maximoff’s mind warp.

         “Everyone’s…” Tony pauses, a conflicted expression flitting over his face. He looks to me, and I nod slightly. “We took a hit,” the billionaire says. “We’ll shake it off.”

         “Well, For now I’d stay in stealth mode, and stay away from here.”

         “So, run and hide?” There's an undertone of reluctance in Tony’s voice, because Iron Man is never one to run from fights that he instigated. But there’s relief twining around it, because Tony Stark is always going to be running away from his mistakes.

         “Until we can find Ultron, I don’t have a lot else to offer,” Maria says.

         “Neither do we,” Tony sighs. He reaches out, switching off the monitor and standing up. I raise a curious eyebrow, to which the genius gestures to Clint at the controls. “Hey, you wanna switch out?” he offers.

         “No, I’m good,” Clint assures the other. “If you wanna get some kip, nods a good time, ‘cause we’re still a few hours out.”

         I send a sharp glance at the back of the pilot’s chair, moving forwards quietly.

         “A few hours from where?” Tony asks. He sounds exhausted.

         “A safe house,” Clint replies.

         His eyes meet mine in the glass of the cockpit, and he nods reassuringly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter is a bit shorter than the previous two, even if it took me fucking ages to write. I’m trying to keep up, and it’s been nice since school has been cancelled the past couple days, but I have to catch up on homework. The American Education system is brilliant.


End file.
